E kala mai  Forgive me
by Elanthra
Summary: Steve's first mission as a Navy Seal commander didn't go to plan. He might have to pay for that mistake... Season One. Steve Whump.
1. Chapter 1

"Forgive me" is my version of the "Steve is kidnapped and his Team have to find him" scenario and came about amid fan demands that we should see more of Steve's Navy Seal history. The writers were good and suppiled that in the guise of Joe White in Season 2. Although my story is set sometime in Season 1, it still refers to Joe White.

I just had to do this. My tribute to Hawaii-Five-O. Though I have to admit to feeling nervous. There are so many good H5O writers in fanfic.

Been too long writing though – since the Summer hiatus in fact. You've no idea how many personal deadlines have come and gone. So apologies if writing gets a little shaky in places and for some resemblance to Episode 2.10, Ki'ilua/Deceiver. I decided to carry on regardless.

Advice to other would-be fanfic writers out there – do not attempt to write stories while seeing off sons and daughters to Uni and emigrating!

"Forgive Me" left me with a word-count of 71,000. Fanfic has a curious habit of thinking up a figure and then adding some...

Disclaimer: I do not own H5O – if I did, they'd be some major changes! (But I just love AOL ;-) )

I'm dedicating this story to my husband - who spent many long hours washing-up so I could update undisturbed. Bless him.

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><p><span>E kala mai (Forgive me)<span>

Chapter One

The door's open so he walks straight in.

Ok. So it's 'unlocked-open' as opposed to '_open_-open.'

And Danny knows that Steve thinks there is this subtle difference.

A subtle difference that Danny, by now, should have gotten to grips with, but Danny just loves to hear his... boss... partner... boss-partner – more definitions that are unclear – explaining that difference with that pissed-off tone of his.

He knows that Steve loves him really and doesn't really mean it.

He waits for the expected: 'Don't you ever knock?'

And he intends to respond with: 'Don't you ever use the alarm system that Chin has installed for you?'

Though, really, the arrival of the Camaro on the McGarrett drive in this sleepy neighbourhood ought to be the doorbell equivalent of ten atom bombs sounding off.

The question doesn't come, however, and Danny finds himself retort-less.

The living quarters are deserted and devoid of all Steve-human-kind.

And yes, he _has_ heard Steve call his own lounge and kitchen area, living quarters. Just like military.

But not for long is Danny without Steve jibe-ammunition.

The shower is running upstairs and he picks up a discarded black brassiere from the back of the couch with a finger and thumb. And being a detective, there is only one conclusion he can come to.

"Yo ho, the Navy's in town."

It's Catherine upstairs, showering. And possibly, judging by the open doors leading out to the beach, where curtains catch and move in the morning breeze, while Steve has gone out for one of those early morning masochistic swims of his.

The swim – or Catherine - would also explain why Steve didn't pick up Chin's call of twenty minutes earlier.

This is going to be good. And Danny's fairly relishing the prospect of listening to Steve's attempts to come up with excuses for the presence of his house guest. Oh... and watch the inevitable blush.

'_I do not blush!'_

'_Oh, yes you do, Mr. Inscrutable Navy Seal.'_

He drops his 'evidence', his smile turning abruptly to a brief frown. He could be anyone. Anyone could have just walked in. A house-breaker could have walked in. A crazed killer could have walked in. The local yakuza could have walked in. However much Steve is enjoying his down-time, he should be more careful.

Danny sighs. He supposes he has to go into full lecture mode again when the wayward Commander returns. Danny's going to grey prematurely if he remains in Hawaii-Five-O.

He also supposes that Catherine is well able to take care of herself in the event of an intruder and therefore - and clever deduction here, Danny - he should vacate the living quarters so as not to spook the lady and earn himself a well-aimed karate chop to an arterial.

Or a kwon do kick to the nether regions.

With his hands firmly in his pockets, he steps outside. And already at this ungodly hour, the sun is glaring viciously off the sea beyond the tiny piece of beach to the front of the McGarrett house. He squints to protect his eyes and sure enough, he picks out Steve – he's the only one stupid enough to be out there - swimming parallel to the shore, some three-quarter of a mile out. Danny waves hoping to catch his Boss-Partner's eye. Steve doesn't miss a thing and spots him, stopping to tread water and to wave back. He then changes direction and heads to shore.

Danny sighs again. Even with those good strong strokes of Steve's, it'll be a while before he makes it back. And they were supposed to be meeting Chin and Kono at HQ ten minutes ago. Danny makes his way to one of Steve's beach chairs. Solid wood. Peeling paint. Dependable but old. And he guesses Steve won't ever change any of this stuff out of respect for his father.

He drops down on the closest. Steve's towel is thrown on the other. Along with his phone. It has three unanswered messages. All from Chin.

'You'll have to wait, Chin, like the rest of us,' Danny murmurs as he eases himself back, one hand behind his head and the other resting across his stomach. He might as well make the best of it. He listens for Catherine to finish showering – the upstairs balcony window must be open and he can still hear the rush of water. He tries his hardest not to picture her naked – that just would not be tactful and was Steve's business - while keeping an eye out for Steve.

He wonders if he might be able to squeeze in a coffee before Steve gets dried, showered and dressed. And promptly, gives that idea up. Steve will be all navy ship-shape, eyes front, sitting to attention, in the driving seat of the Camaro before Danny can even say 'black with two sugars'.

Despite the early hour, there's a surprising amount of white craft flecking the big briny blue. Fishing boats. Graceful yachts. Cruisers. A speed boat or two. All out of the Honolulu marinas. And in the distance, a majestic liner ploughs its way effortlessly to Kauai.

He doesn't envy any of the passengers. His preference is always for solid ground. Sidewalks. And... if God had wanted men to live on islands, he wouldn't have invented Continents.

He remembers a conversation with Steve.

'_Admit it, you can't swim,'_ says Steve.

'_Swim? Me? Oh, I can swim. Who says I can't swim? I just choose not to swim. Swimming is for preservation purposes only. To preserve life of person or persons from drowning when suddenly brought into close contact with deep water. Swimming is not for pleasure. And if swimming is for pleasure, it is certainly _not_ to be carried out in a cold ocean, thank you very much.' _

He shuts his eyes but almost immediately, cracks them open again. One speedboat is coming in close, fast and very noisy, engines on full throttle, hitting waves with a loud thump and thwack. God, did the drivers – pilots – whatever - never read basic safety instructions when they set out in these things? Must be some tourist, or some spoilt brat who's never done an honest day's graft in his life, who has more money than sense.

He sits up. Attentive.

Weird. He knows that none of Steve's neighbours have private moorings, yet the boat seems to be heading this way.

The same direction as Steve.

And he's thinking... they might not see Steve in the water. And he's thinking... collision.

And he can see the pilot now. All in black. Balaclava. Balaclava? In Hawaii?

Hell... _Steve_.

He's on his feet in an instant, sprinting to the water's edge, arms waving like some lunatic, bawling Steve's name at the top of his voice to be heard above the roar of the boat's engine.

"Steve! Steve! Steve!"

Steve, still some distance for the shore, is treading water again. Doesn't need Danny's yelling. He's realized the boat is bearing down on his space. Fast. He can't exactly back track. But he's up and swimming again, away from land to avoid the boat.

Danny draws his P30 out of its holster, hoping to fire off at least a warning shot across the bow but the range, beyond fifty yards, is hopeless. His rounds hit and plunk uselessly into the sea as the boat swerves sharply, etching a deep trough into the water, coming round to Steve's left side and sending up plumes of white spray.

In all the churning of the water, Danny can see Steve trying to outrace the boat.

'You're good, but you're not that good,' he thinks but he's truly willing Steve on to get himself to safety. Seconds pass, and Steve's forced to stop swimming again as the boat veers once more to block him off.

It's coming round to complete a circle, bringing it close to the shore again and Danny, wanting to actually hit something this time, runs into the sea –

'_Custom made designer shoes Rachel bought. Wet. You owe me, Steve...' _

The water laps at his thighs as he aims with both hands. This time he'll get the guy. But the boat is too fast, and his shots simply take out fibre glass chips from the tail end. Sparks fly from the guard rail. If he's not careful, a ricochet shot could hit Steve. Nothing reaches as the boat begins another, tighter circle of Steve, the din of the turn echoing along the whole deserted beach.

Danny feels like Balaclava Guy is doing the proverbial one finger sign.

And there's nothing Danny can do but hope that the boat doesn't eventually hit Steve, that this teasing and toying will come to an end. He's forced to watch as Steve is caught, trapped in a maelstrom of engine revving, diesel fumes and churning white water and spray. The noise must be horrendous. The confusion... it's bad enough for Danny looking on. He hasn't the time to leave Steve in this position and get something more substantial than his handgun from the Camaro. And he hasn't a clue where Steve stashes the key to his gun cabinet. He whips out his phone and he's onto Chin to call in the troops

"Back up needed! Steve's house! Send choppers. Coast guard. He's in the sea under attack by boat!"

But his gut drops - he's too late - when he spots Balaclava man pick up a submachine gun from the passenger seat.

Steve has spotted it too. He visibly hesitates. Danny is even sure he glances at the shoreline to check Danny's safe. Still the boat is circling Steve. Threatening. Threatening. Danny sees Steve take a deep breath and then... he dives down and disappears beneath the surface. A place of safety but Danny can't begin to imagine what it must be like for Steve below water...

Danny swerves round at the sudden sound of a female voice yelling. And Catherine comes running out the house, catapulting through the water behind him, dressed in jeans and one of Steve's T –shirts, brandishing Steve's Sig.

"No!" he shouts, spotting the movement of Balaclava Man's gun hand and he grabs her by the waist as she passes, drawing her in tight and close, flinching as a spray of pellets pucker the water in front of them. He pulls her back to shallower water where he hopes they're out of range, but she's struggling in his grip.

"Steve! It's Steve! I've got to help him!"

"No, No, keep back, you can't do anything!" He has her firmly by the wrists. "Sorry, babe! Sorry, babe, but Steve doesn't want you dead. Are you going to keep quiet?"

She nods and he lets her go and tries to guide her back to the beach, legs heavy with the pull of wet pants and shoes. Catherine's cold and shivering. He thinks he might be too. The both of them are unable to take their eyes off the scene in the sea, counting desperate seconds, knowing that Steve will have to resurface again soon.

A Navy Seal can hold his breath underwater for how long? Five minutes? But is it enough to swim to safety?

Balaclava Man is screaming at the water. At Steve. The boat engine kills his words. But it's not tough to figure out his meaning. Balaclava Man aims his gun from the hip, still keeping one hand on the wheel. He's pulled back on the speed of the boat to concentrate on drawing a circle of fire in the sea at the place where Steve was last seen.

Abruptly, he sharp turns the boat to bring it closer to the shore, and Danny takes Catherine by the shoulder – it's like he can read this guy's mind – he's threatening them to get at Steve - the expected ratta-tat-tat of the gun sends up an arc of splattering spray and already Danny is throwing Catherine down – and suddenly he's fighting for breath - all he can see and hear is the gurgling of water as he scrabbles for air again, aware of Catherine beside him, trying to find her feet too.

'_You can drown in only five inches,'_ his inner voice is shrieking.

They both surface, and he's gasping for air, crawling forward on all fours, hauling Catherine along with him, hoping upon hope that they're making enough of a splash to stop a well-aimed round from the gun.

He can hardly see. The taste of brine. Sand and salt and water clogging his mouth and his nostrils. Eyes. Clothes, hair soaked. And – there go their guns.

And through all this, Catherine is still yelling for Steve, still wanting to go after him, demanding Danny lets her go - and he admires her for that - but she's going to get herself killed. He's wrapping his arms around her body, trapping and restricting her by the elbows and he lifts her back to the beach, kicking and shouting.

They fall clumsily on the beach, unable to make it any further though Danny doubts they're out of range yet. He rolls over to his back, pushing himself up on his elbows to see Steve's situation and - it's not good.

Steve has re-surfaced. He must have seen everything that's just happened. Balaclava Man is again hollering at Steve and waving that machine gun. He wants Steve to climb up onto the boat.

Steve shouts back at Balaclava Man and is promptly swimming to and hauling himself onto the back swimming platform, body glistening in the sunshine and wet.

"No, Danny, no..." murmurs Catherine. He can feel her shuddering beside him. "He's giving himself up for us..."

Steve seems to curl over as if he's hurt his leg while climbing on board.

Then.

The two on the boat are facing each other.

Then.

The boat hits a wave and it throws Steve forward.

Then.

The guy pistol-whips Steve across the jaw before he's even properly standing again, sending Steve sprawling down into the cockpit.

"No. No. No," moans Catherine, resting her head on Danny's shoulder. And he can't find words to console her. All he can do is lean over and help clear her wet hair from her face.

The boat takes off at speed, heading towards the city. It's all over in minutes. Boat and McGarrett gone. Leaving the two of them, breathless. Shocked.

Leaving a strange silence as the sea stills.

The sounds of distant police sirens close in.

It's all too late.

-H5O-

He remembers things. Takes note. Always. Vividly. Detail. It's how he's wired. Long before Seal training.

The white white of boat. Made sleek by red and blue paint work. A Baja Outlaw. Not new. Possibly five years or older. Engine capacity. 425 h.p. Easily. The noise and churn tells him it can reach speeds of 70 m.p.h.

Registration number – he notices this while hauling himself up the back swimmer's platform, hissing as a roughness in the metal-work, scrapes a gouge in his thigh – Danny had probably caught it with a stray bullet – all this he assesses - he hopes Danny got to see it though the script is small and tucked under the deck – HA 4889 H. A shark motif's been added. Personalised. Easy to trace.

A mind compiling notes for later.

Detail.

Emotions. No. Cut those. Irrelevant.

But there's dread. There's fear for Catherine and Danny way back to the shoreline.

Fear for himself? Some. Cut that too. Irrelevant. It's how he's wired. It's how he's trained.

He shivers, dripping on the aft of the boat. Legs apart for balance. It's slippery. Feels the vibration of power engine. His legs weakened, shaking even from the long swim. He looks down and sees his blood from the cut to his thigh joining rivulets of water on the deck.

Mouth is dry. He's needs re-hydrating. Glucose. After the swim. These are body details that are important. How much he'll have to compensate for when he takes this guy on. His body is his tool. This all takes seconds and he's counting his rapid heart-beat against his rib cage. The detail that adrenalin is pumping. Fuelling him for his next move.

Salt water in his eyes. His tongue also finds salt on his lips. Detail that's irrelevant. Anticipation. Trying to slow down breaths after nearly drowning in churning white, bubbling water. Shark. Apt. The way it'd circled him, nearly drowning him in wash.

And there's the pilot. Black. Black against the white of the boat.

Irrelevant that the morning sunlight sparkles from sea and white fibreglass and steel, blinding him. The distant shore is so green green. The sky so blue blue. A childhood memory stirs. Put it away. Irrelevant.

But.

Emotion, feelings, leak in.

He's in wide open space but he's prisoner all the same, held in by an invisible cage - the man has a gun and Steve doesn't.

He needs to take the pilot on. Slow down breaths. Wipes the water from his face. Swipes his nose. The pilot allows it even though he's still holding the Heckler and Koch. MP55DS. Navy Seal make. 26" Stock extended to increase its range to 660 metres. This detail he assimilated when in the water. It meant the guy could hit the house, let alone Danny and Catherine.

The pilot rests it on a hip. One handed. The other on the wheel. Steve could take his chance.

The noise from the engine is still deafening. He drives the distraction out. He has to concentrate.

The guy all in black says nothing. Has said nothing. But there's menace directed at Steve. Sometimes you have to read things that aren't there. He beckons Steve forward off the aft of the boat to the front seats. He takes a step or two, hesitant before jumping down but the boat lunges on a wave as the boat takes a tight curve west, sending him unwilling and unprepared towards the guy – The H and K comes up in an arc... and blue blue sea and sky go grey, dropping him in black vastness...

Then... detail... dark dark black night... no... the dark is the suffocating blanket that wraps him.

Prickling of rough wool fabric against bare skin. He's still dressed in rash vest and swimming shorts. No other detail is coming at him. Nothing he can use to escape this thing. And he needs to escape. He's bound by zip ties at the wrists and ankles. He struggles. Stops when there's movement close-by and the blanket is lifted at his right side. He struggles again.

At the pinprick at his arm. And he lists two possible drugs before the grey drifts him away on waves...

Dark dark black night... And then... blurred shimmering lights that won't stay still.

Nausea. Irrelevant detail.

He's no longer tied but his legs, arms are weak, heavy, and his head is too woozy to object to the guy – he assumes it's his abductor - hauling him along on one shoulder. His feet drag on wooden planks of... a jetty? There's a breeze that he feels even through the blanket. It's draped loosely over his head. Voices come at him like down a spiralling tunnel. And laughter.

"Too much partaying, bruddah?"

"Yeah. Bed time. Didn't know a sailor who couldn't hold his drink till I met this one."

Detail. In the files of his memory. His abductor's voice. An accent he knows. Southern. His abductor is talking, _lying,_ to someone they've met near the boat? Steve wants to free his head of the restrictive blanket, but it won't budge. He wants to get a look at the guy's face – to get that detail.

And... he mouths the words, "help."

He's sure he did. A reflex action. A human reaction. Because he's in no condition to help himself. His limbs won't propel themselves into the action that his brain urges.

His slurred plea for help is met with more laughter.

More detail comes at him. The jingling of mooring ropes. The slap of waves. Receding as his abductor half-carries him. Panic. As his chance of help recedes too. He tries to fall, making himself heavy. A stalling tactic, but his abductor tightens his grip. This detail. His abductor is strong, muscular.

But... Steve's abductor is alone. He's sure of it. An army of only one to go up against.

Detail. The roughness of tarmac cuts at his bare feet. And he's dumped, slumped on the back seat of... but his useless brain cuts him out again...

It's green green green when he comes round. Vegetation. The smell humid and of damp earth, invades his nostrils. His cheeks press close to leaves. He's lying on his side and is soon uncomfortable with the weight of his body entirely on his left arm. But he can't shift. Memories of sunlight on the sea and of the boat quickly have him checking - the zip ties are back again. At his ankles. At his wrists secured behind his back.

His vision fully clears. The sun's filtering down, shimmering through overhead trees... He glances up... Branches arch to blue blue sky and sunlight make his eye muscles ache. He listens. The buzz drone of insects. Bird song. A slight breeze rattles the larger leaves of near-by foliage. Perhaps the sounds of a distant waterfall? He can't be sure.

But he's certain his abductor has left him.

A forest. Therefore well away from buildings and civilization. From help. But no building confines him. Easier to escape then.

He twists round to fully take in his surroundings. Detail. A clearing, some fifty yards in diameter. Limp, broad flattened ferns, grasses and stems scatter the floor. Leaves that have been cut. Recent. A clearing made in the last day or so.

Trees of koa and 'ohia'lehua, draped with vines. A couple of large palms. Trees that grow at higher elevations. He's well up in the mountains. But which island? By boat, it could be any. Though it's tricky by speed boat to cross the shipping channels. Unless you know the currents. Oahu, still. Possibly.

Trees that border the clearing provide cover for a small tent sited directly ahead of him. Even so, a large camouflage netting is slung between trees providing even more cover. This place is not meant to be found from the air. And he finds himself thinking yet again that his abductor is military.

But with all the camping equipment here, his abductor had to have brought a vehicle close to. Had to have accessed the area by some dirt trail - no way could he have hiked here on foot and certainly not carrying Steve.

That meant... there was a way out if he escaped, without getting lost in dense forest – and a way in to be found by others if... he didn't.

A movement makes him look up again quickly – there's little wrong with his reflexes. He squints, and sees a hawk. Black silhouette against the sky – and flying free... Irrelevant. Put the emotion down.

Concentrate. Detail. His own physical checks. Nausea again but not as bad as before. But lightheaded. Headache. His jaw throbs where took the brunt of the blow on the boat. It's made worse now by the way he's trussed up. But it's not broken. Or... the guy knew how to deliver a blow with just enough force to put him out. Again that question. Is Steve's abductor, _trained _military_?_

He knows there's a gash on his thigh. Could feel the dry stiff scab split when he'd fidgeted to take in the clearing. He has no energy. Hasn't eaten. Gone too long without fluids. His tongue sticks uncomfortable and dry to the roof of his mouth. Detail. The humidity and warmth of the forest makes him wet with perspiration. The tall trees obscure the sun, but only just. Time of day, therefore, must be nearing noon? He's been captive for over twenty four hours? His stubble pretty much confirms it.

He still wears only his swim shorts and rash vest...

This is going to get dangerous. He might have more to fear yet than dehydration. Detail that his brain quickly assimilates. Needs to escape. This has gone on for far too long. He has no broken bones. Nothing majorly wrong. There is nothing here he can't handle.

He's made a mistake by surrendering? No. None. Had to give himself up to protect Danny and Catherine. Detail of their faces in his memory. Good that they're safe. Good. Good.

Footsteps, suddenly. Booted. That crack and snap at the foliage as they approach from behind. Detail. He's ready. He's ready. He stills. Plays dead. He's ready. The guy would have a weapon.

Though the flesh at the back of his neck crawls.

He's ready. He's ready to twist over, jerk up his knees and launch a kick at his abductor's groin.

He has scarcely seconds to react before one boot, aided by a strong hand on his wrist ties, shoves him over to his face and stomach, zapping out all breathe. And the boot, firm between his shoulder blades, pins him to the forest floor.

He gets his breathing controlled again. He's got to do better than this if he wants to survive. Detail. Hears his abductor breathing. It's not even either.

His mind is racing to assess, even while he can feel rope brushing against the skin on his biceps. His abductor collected rope from his vehicle? Therefore it's parked behind him?

A curl of rope drops near his head. He struggles... believing the worse - that it's a noose to hang him. But his abductor could have killed him on the boat.

There's additional tightness at the ties at his wrists - the rope is being knotted at wrists. Expertly. With practice. With purpose. A pause. The boot doesn't shift though. Steve feels this is his last chance to retaliate. He's panting. His breathing isn't controlled at all. He letting his only miserable chance slip on by.

Rope swishes high over his head hitting leaves and branches.

The boot shifts –

- and abruptly Steve is swept off the forest floor. Trees spin, waltz around him as he's hoisted a couple yards off the forest floor, suspended by the rope.

He yells. He can't hold that in check. His eyes squeeze shut and stream with the pain that slices at his head – at his shoulders – at his arms – at his wrists, twisted, stretched behind his back and made to support his whole body. Breath is gone and comes only in gasps. Lungs, chest, are too tight to move. Shoulders... arms feel like they're going to be wrenched from their sockets. His head lolls forward - fire of pain crucifying him.

Training.

Information from training floods in that he has no wish to recognize. He's not been brought here to be killed.

He's been brought here to be tortured.

-H5O-


	2. Chapter 2

A/N I've thanked all reviewers to "Forgive Me" personally, but I'd also like to extend thanks to all those who've left alerts and favs. I feel overwhelmed at your kind response to Chapter One.

Chapter Two, like Chapter One comes in two halves. One, exposition for Danny, and the second, some whump for Steve.

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><p><span>Chapter Two<span>

Really his Camaro didn't deserve this. He's grating through gear changes and the smell of rubber coming from the tyres is even coming through the air con.

And what did this kind of driving get you? Wasn't he always telling Steve? It gets you dead, that what it does. And probably a couple of innocent bystanders too. And he has Grace to think of. But he has Steve to think of too... And rational thought chides him that mistreating his car isn't ever going to magically bring Steve back. There. Poof. As if by magic. As if...

If only...

He glances to Catherine on his right. And Danny can see what Steve sees in her. Strong. Resilient. Who hadn't gone completely to pieces when the total reality of what had just happened really hit them both. Though he notices, her clutched knuckles, where she's holding the seat edge, are white with tension. He doubts his driving is entirely to blame.

"Sorry. I'll slow down."

"Yes. Slowing down would be good."

Perhaps she had been trained at that Super Seal School the Navy had. She simply shivers now and then, though she's changed her clothes. (His are still damp he realises uncomfortably.) And Danny can appreciate that she's a good-looking brunette despite her limp, unbrushed hair that she tries to straighten now and then.

Steve had done well here.

_Had? _

Danny reckons that he's the most terrified. Terrified? Yes. Emphatically, yes. They had lost Steve.

They had lost Steve.

_He _had lost Steve.

A billion times and his mind goes into re-play of everything that had occurred on the beach. He can't put away the guilt that he should have done more to prevent Steve from being taken. Chin and Kono say otherwise. He wishes it'd help.

The crime scene is officially at Steve's place. That house just had to be unlucky. The number of times it'd been the centre of a police investigation. Though all clues are on that boat. Which, surprise, surprise has done a disappearing trick.

Initially, Danny had waited with a HPD team in case of a ransom call. None had come. And he'd grown impatient with that waiting.

He speeds way too fast round the nearly nude statue of King Kam – heck, why couldn't they have least put a grass skirt on that guy? - and swerves, bumping over the kerb, shaving off a slice of manicured lawn before finally screeching to a halt in his parking lot at the Iolani Palace. He doesn't care much that that kind of parking might normally get him some well-earned ribbing from Steve – from _anyone_ who sees. Need justifies means, and his need is to get to HQ and sprint up the flight of stairs, to hear the latest on the search for Steve.

Chin and Kono are at the central desk top thingey – Danny can never figure out the technological name. Both cousins look up. Chin shakes his head. Kono bites her lip and looks away. Desolate.

"Still nothing?" he demands, making to stride over but nearly letting the door swing into Catherine, who's following close behind. He quickly remembers his manners and holds it open for her.

"Catherine Rollins," he introduces with his other hand. "Steve's... well, you... um, know..." and he believes he might now be the one blushing. Both Chin and Kono nod.

"Chin Ho Kelly. Kono Kalakaua." They all shake hands.

"I've heard... I've a great deal about you," says Catherine, her smile strained and weak.

"Can I offer you something?" asks Kono.

Ah, women's intuition. Tea and kind words – Danny just hadn't thought to offer either in all the aftermath.

"Whisky?" she blurts out.

And they all start. Not as collected as she appears. Danny wouldn't mind a shot or two of that either.

"Though tea..." she quickly adds gratefully. "Camomile? Two sugars?"

Kono returns Catherine's slight smile. It's as much as anyone can manage. "Tea. Tea can be arranged. " And she leaves.

"No. We have nothing to add," resumes Chin, sighing, as they gather round the table lit up with a map of Oahu. "The coastguard choppers are still trawling the whole of that area of coastline and are drawing blanks."

"Don't tell me, a boat that's looks like 584 others isn't going to be easy to spot." Danny thumps the table edge and throws up his arms in frustration, resting them finally on his hips. He could spit.

Chin winces. "You said it, brah. And you could even add an extra zero in there. The dimensions and description you gave fits just about every power boat going in and out of Hawaii marinas."

"But it was the one that was, you know, actually _power-boating_ away from Steve's house. _Supersonically._ It couldn't have just disappeared. This is an _island_. Not the entire Eastern seaboard."

"I'm sorry," breaks in Catherine with an apology to Chin. "We just couldn't get the registration number or name. Too many waves ..." she fades off, remembering, Danny figures, everything in vivid Technicolor. Danny wouldn't blame her much if she now cried.

Kono returns with the tea, and even a plate of biscuits. Ordinarily, he'd snatch one as they pass-by. He has no appetite.

"The abductor slowed down and mingled with the crowd," suggests Chin. "We do exactly the same when we work surveillance."

"So, he clearly planned it that way? It's been premeditated from the outset," says Kono, offering Catherine her cup of tea.

"Certainly he'd get less witnesses with a boat," agrees Chin. "A vehicle out on the street gets noticed."

"Little old ladies behind lace curtains..." Danny murmurs. They never miss a thing.

"He... I mean... we're assuming it's a 'he'... he must have been watching Steve for some time... to know he swum regularly, though... Steve told me he was always careful not to be too routine..." Catherine clutches her cup tighter as her voice hitches. "In case..." and she turns away to look at the floor, so they can't see, but only guess, how cut-up she is.

Danny, who's standing closest, puts his arm around her. It's awkward but it's appreciated.

"Hey... hey... we'll find him," he says gently. "We're good here. We're the best, ok. We'll find him, ok?"

"We have HPD already checking out every marina and registered power boat owner. The coastguard, every beach and cove," assures Kono.

And Danny looks to Chin. "And still no ransom demand?"

Chin shakes his head. "And are we really expecting one? A kidnapping by one lone individual?"

"It's looking like it could be retaliation? Revenge?" Puts in Kono. "We've already drawn up a list of likely suspects who might have a grudge, both against Steve-"

"And Hawaii 5-O," adds Chin.

"Oh yeah, and let me guess, the number of suspects is... ta da..." and Danny opens his arms. "584."

Chin nods grimly. "There's a few," he confirms.

"And nothing points to Wo Fat being involved?" asks Danny. Chin and Kono must be thinking it. But if it were, the situation is even blacker than ever for Steve.

"As yet we have no way of knowing," says Chin. He shakes his head. "It doesn't feel like yakuza somehow. This loner doesn't fit that kind of profile. We've given the Navy Seals a call," he continues, glancing up to the wall screens, "to see if they can throw light on the case."

Danny winces. Steve. A _case_ already? A number in a file?

"Steve is still a reservist after all. There could be something, _someone_ in Steve's navy records? They're fully debriefed on the kidnapping and as we speak, are setting up a live feed from Navy Seals HQ, in five, with a Commander-" and he checks the computer table - an indication that for all Chin's apparent professional facade, he's not acting on full cylinders – he's worried – it shows in his eyes - he'd never ordinarily forget a detail, a name like that. "...Grifferson. He's seeing what he can tell us. They're taking this very seriously indeed. Steve was in on some privy info in his time."

"Steve would never-" and Catherine chews at her lip. She doesn't want to be saying any of this. "Not even... under... coercion. He would never say anything. "

And the three team mates exchange sharp glances. Danny swipes a hand across the back of his neck. Clammy with frustration, anxiety. No, _fear_.

They were talking... _torture_ now? How did they get there? How did they get to that?

"No. No, he wouldn't, would he?" agrees Danny numbly, trying not to imagine what could be happening to Steve at this very moment. At this very freaking moment.

_But Christ, Steve what have you gotten yourself into?_

And then Chin's explanation fully sinks in. "What they _can_ tell us? They're telling us what they _can_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he demands.

"We're requesting access to material that might be sensitive to national security and we're not cleared to see this kind of classified information," says Chin significantly, and as if on cue, the satellite connection kicks in and they're all looking at some forty-something Navy bigwig. A mountain of a guy who fills the screen. Whose voice is breathy and big too.

"My apologies for the delay, Detective Kelly, but it took longer than I expected to assess how much clearance, if any, we could provide you people."

Danny folds his arms belligerently. He shouldn't be doing this. Being hostile to a guy who might help find Steve. But the threat of being told that anything to do with Steve might be none of their business is bound to be a little... irritating.

Be nice, his inner voice is telling him.

"Oh, we have _clearance_ now?" he throws up at the screen in challenge. "You held your meetings or whatever it is you guys have and decided to let us _know_ something?" He can't help himself. The sarcasm just wants in. And he wants to mention Governor Jameson's "full means and measures". Didn't that count for something?

"Detective Williams." Grifferson turns and addresses him. Though they haven't been introduced. So Chin is right. These guys have got themselves totally up-to-date as regards the Hawaii 5-O task force. He bets this guy knows his marks from Fifth Grade. And he finds that intrusion more irritating than ever. But impressive. All rolled into one. Anything to do with this Super Secret Stuff of Steve's past career has him in awe.

"Yes. You have clearance. But it's limited. Nothing I am about to say must go beyond your four walls. Before I can continue I must have guarantees that this is fully understood."

Chin looks around the room to make sure he's speaking for everyone. Danny sighs, nods and leans on the table, studying nothing more than the table edge. If they must do all this cloak and dagger stuff...

"We understand, Commander Grifferson," agrees Chin.

"And I see you have Catherine Rollins there? She must leave the room."

Danny wants to protest but Catherine supplies a dutiful "I'll be downstairs in the foyer."

"Catherine... yeah... later."

She puts down her cup to leave and Danny touches her arm. He hates to see her go. He does not like this man and his officialdom and his condescension one little bit.

"I'll get straight to business, shall I?" and Grifferson, leaning forward, can be heard tapping into the keyboard at his end. "I'm sending you over files now." He's blunt and curt. No more polite than he has to be. He might not like Danny either.

"Well, that's... that's very gracious of you," thanks Danny, 'considering that a man's life is at stake here.' He could be very angry with this man. Very angry indeed. But his insincere thanks are lost on Grifferson.

It's instantly forgotten by Danny too who stiffens as the second wall screen lights up with a service shot of Steve, beige camou uniform, nice tight tie, cap, eyes front, a few years younger with no grey hairs.

Danny checks Kono and Chin. This is painful for them too.

Other personnel files flicker across the screen in rapid succession. More photos. Names. Birthdates. Ethnic groups. Serial numbers. Enrolment dates. Tours of duty are obvious by the thick black lines that blank them out.

"You'll see the point of all this soon," explains Grifferson. "Over the past six months, a couple more of our ex-operatives have disappeared. At first, we thought it was a simple coincidence."

"Simple?" asks Danny.

Grifferson arches an eyebrow at him. He's getting to know Danny now. Fast. And not liking his tone. Well, ha-di-ha.

"Until Commander McGarrett was taken this morning, we hadn't realised there was a link. All three were part of a two-team operation in 2007 in the Far East. I've downloaded you their personnel files with recent photos with the hope that they may prove useful in your investigation. I can't tell you anymore than that-"

"Otherwise you would have to shoot us?"

"What happened to these two agents?" quickly interjects Chin. And Danny rocks on his feet, and holds up his hands, accepting the other detective's tactful interruption. Danny needs to be protected from his himself sometimes. But what happened to these two agents can't be good.

"One was dumped beside the Florida 400 freeway near Lakeland."

And Danny's in there in full fighting mode again.

"Dumped? As in dead dumped? I just want to be clear on this? I guess there are many definitions of dumped. I don't want to be thought of as ignorant on my degrees of dumpedness."

"I thought you wanted me to be quick? So you can find McGarrett?"

"I thought we were talking about human beings here."

The man coughs and re-phrases. "The body of one was discovered two weeks after his disappearance next to Florida 400 – that's three states away from where he was taken – while out walking his dog."

Danny pulls a face – _three_ states away. Hell...

"I'd skip the pictures if I were you, they're not nice." Photos of a corpse, half mangled by wild animals, starts to scroll across their screen. "Suffice to say, most of the trauma inflicted on John McIntyre's body was pre-death. Torture by multiple means. Our second agent disappeared whilst out for supplies, and was never found. He was receiving psychiatric treatment at the time. Unofficially, it was thought he'd taken his own life. Hence, we didn't immediately see a possible connection. "

"This is a commonplace occurrence with you guys, that you go missing and don't make the links?" says Chin drily, apparently, coming over to Danny's side.

"On the contrary, we seldom lose operatives on their free time, even de-activated ones. It's a part of their training to be permanently on the lookout."

"But three could still be a coincidence?" asks Kono.

"True, but they were on the same operation. We believe there's a pattern forming," affirms Grifferson.

"So...tortured..." Danny says the word quietly. He hates using the word this way. In a discussion. It's like he's reading a label on a carton of milk. "Tortured for what? Someone wanted to know something. You permitted to tell us who might be after the information they hold?"

"No."

Danny is taken aback. He likes directness. It's what he likes about Steve. But this is earnestness to a fault.

"So the point of you talking to us, is...? Other than the obvious two reasons. That of admitting neglect and not warning McGarrett so he got kidnapped this morning. And a breach of security that's meant that these guys' names were leaked to wannabe abductors and torturers."

"Commander McGarrett _was_ warned. I explained this? All our Seals live their lives under that constant threat of retaliation. It needn't be a terrorist threat. There are those out there who are just... anti-military. He's warned all the time. It was,_ is _the nature of his work. There is never any let-up for any Navy Seal or any other special ops agent. It's for life to be in peril. To hold secrets.

And there was, and I repeat categorically, there was _no_ security leak of the details of this mission. The highest name in the nation had to authorize the release of what little information I am currently passing on to you. And I do _mean_ the highest authority."

The President? He had to be kidding.

"That's how tightly locked up this operation was. I am permitted to tell you this, however. There's a major player in diplomatic circles involved. If they had the names of any of McGarrett's team, if they had the slightest inkling – and McGarrett was acting-Team Leader for an operation overseeing a dozen men on an extremely covert operation into territory where they really shouldn't have been – believe me, we wouldn't be seeing the abductions of agents but most probably an international incident with accusations of the U.S. breaking another nation's sovereignty. Followed by a virtual declaration of war. _Not_ agents being picked off one by one."

"So you saying you don't actually know who's responsible?" asks Chin.

"I'm saying it's unlikely it's this country or their agents. They would have extensive means of rounding up and... 'despatching' the operatives quickly – and not undertake something protracted over time like this."

"Our abductor is another member of this team then? An insider," suggests Kono.

Grifferson shakes his head. Though he doesn't mean 'no'. It's disbelief. Danny's picked up hints from Steve – Seals are tight, virtual blood-brothers – they'd never let anyone down – never leave a man behind. It would be difficult to conceive breaking that code. And Danny understands this utterly and completely – he too, would never let down Kono, Chin... _Steve_...

"I regret that's the conclusion we came to. It was mission that went belly-up, through the fault of no-one. Just sheer bad luck. Three men lost their lives, including the commanding officer. Commander McGarrett, only a Lieutenant back then, was forced to assume command, though young and lacking in any former experience to do so. He was exemplary in the way that he got his men out safely, two of whom were injured, across difficult terrain in a country that would not have dealt with US military personnel too kindly if any were discovered. He received commendations. I cannot believe that any one of those men under his command at that time could possibly harbour a grudge.

In the last hour, we've looked into the whereabouts of the six surviving team members."

"You checking out your own men?" asks Danny.

Grifferson shrugs.

"Two are still in active service and are currently in assignments. The remaining four were either at their home addresses or places of work on the mainland as of this morning. If there's a link to this mission, then unfortunately, it's probably a family member of one of the dead men. We're in the process of checking their alibis too."

"What about the guy that's thought to have been abducted and is still missing? Could that be a smokescreen?" Chin's question. "Perhaps he's not missing at all?"

"It's a possibility but it would be completely out of character," says Grifferson. "He was the most decorated Navy Seal of them all. I told you that he was undergoing treatment for mental health problems. His family is extremely distraught. I don't think he would put them all through that."

"Believe you me, I've seen it all in our line of work," confesses Chin. "They were all at home, at work, but any one of these men could have put out a contract."

Danny sighs. "And you can send us all the pictures you like," he indicates with a wave of a hand to the second screen where the last of the service files still remain, "but Catherine and I didn't get a positive look at the guy. We can't even do a match."

"I'm sorry," says Grifferson. "I'm sorry about McGarrett. He was... _is_ a good man. You have my assurance that we'll continue to carry out our investigations concurrently with your own. I'm putting agents at your disposal. I'm not short of volunteers who want to help any way they can. You simply have to give the word." And suddenly Danny finds himself liking the man after all. For his sincerity. "But I must repeat, you ask around but make it discreet. None of the team's identities must be revealed. Nothing of this mission."

"You have our promise," says Chin. "Thanks for your help, Commander Grifferson. We'll keep you informed about things our end."

"Detective Kelly." He nods and the screen goes blank.

Danny places a hand on a hip and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Some faces. Some names. Not a lot to go on. Heck, all we saw was a balaclava."

"He's given us a time frame," murmurs Chin, down to the table.

"Two weeks. Yeah. Two weeks before an abductor gets tired of waiting for answers," agrees Danny, again trying his damn hardest not to think what Steve might be going through right now – hopefully he was escaping. He always seemed to land on his feet. This time would be no exception. Why shouldn't it?

Two weeks to escape. But still, a ticking clock.

He sighs. "We're basically back to looking for a boat in a big blue ocean."

-H5O-

Detail.

Hanging with his wrists behind his back, he's crippled. He's defenceless. Open to attack that might – _will_ come his way. His vision is limited. His breathing is restricted. The tension across his shoulders is like a tourniquet tied tight across his chest. If he attempts to lift his head, it's like... it's like... someone is slitting open the muscles from the back of his neck... all the way through to his upper-arms.

He's been hanging here, in this position, what, an hour? But he can't see the sun to assess the time of day. He's seeing mostly greenery. Leaves. Broken branches scattered across the forest floor. His sweat drips from his face and chest. Darkens the leaves. Flies buzz round him. His shadow... small, therefore, it's still early afternoon. Yeah... an hour... an eternal hour.

And he longs... Irrelevant... put the emotion down... but a memory seeps in... and he's sharing a beer with his Team... and his mind goes over other details... if he were in control... plans... choppers, HPD personnel, with photos directed to search for him, to ask questions... coastguard checking out every beach and cove... how he would do things... maps... grid-references...

But how the hell is his Team ever going to find him? Here? Irrelevant question. They'll do it. They'll do it.

If he doesn't escape first.

And...

All mixed in...

What the hell does the guy want from him?

He's tried asking and there's nothing. He's tried shouting and there's nothing.

"Hey! Hey!" But there's nothing coming from this guy.

He's knows the guy is there. If he struggles, his body swings on the rope and he can get enough momentum to see the guy out of the corner of his eye. The movement half-kills him, but he needs to check. He needs to assess his abductor. He needs a profile. He needs motive. Purpose.

Steve hears him moving round the area of the tent. Smells the odour of food. Reminds him he hasn't eaten. Is thirsty. Self-pity. Irrelevant. Thoughts that won't help Steve.

The guy's cooking. Calm. Not minding Steve hanging there three or four yards away. Not hurried.

That tells Steve a lot.

This guy is going to crucify him. Slowly. Methodically...

But instinct tells him, this guy isn't organized crime. He's nothing to do with Wo Fat. He's working alone. There's no sign of armed heavies. This is a guy with... problems... issues. Does that make it easier?

He remembers SERE training. The briefest of memory but all its detail. The classroom. He remembers sitting with the dozen other guys. He's comfortable, slouched back in a plastic chair. He has a note pad in front where his doodles link chains across the page. Occasionally he did bother to take notes. Just to keep Joe White happy. Lectures are boring when all you want is action. Detail. The blue paint. Cracks in the plaster zig-zagging across the top of the window where a crooked blind fails to keep the sun off the room's occupants. A lone fly buzzes hopelessly at the smeared glass. The voice of Joe White... He didn't need to take notes. He remembers the detail.

'_If you're captured, feed the hatred. Feed the anger. Use it as your weapon.'_

Danny and Catherine have been threatened. Steve's been taken against his will. Enough reasons for anger there without knowing the reason why. Or who his captor is.

He tries, he strains to lift his head when footsteps move closer.

It's time. He hears his heart-beats quicken in his ears. Control that.

The guy has changed clothing since the boat. He's shrugging off a camou jacket. He wears matching camou pants. Sweat darkens at the armpits of a green T. He's overheating in the humidity of the rainforest.

Detail.

He still wears the balaclava.

To intimidate.

But Steve knows nothing. He doesn't know his enemy. He doesn't know his enemy's purpose.

'_If you're captured, feed the hatred. Feed the anger. Use it as your weapon.'_

He hangs helplessly by his wrists held behind him. It's effort to even raise his head, effort that slices across the tight strained muscles of his chest but Steve has to gauge intent... it somehow feels more pressing than summoning anger. He has to know why he's here. He has to _understand_ first. And he feels... hatred, that total commitment to anger that can kill a man, slip dangerously away from him... feels it replaced by the warm dread of fear in his stomach...

Balaclava and the whites of the guy's eyes. And pink lips that purse with...

There's a lot of intent suddenly - Steve's sees the right hand of the man clutching a hunting knife. And Steve is tense and ready but at this impossible angle, he can't swing his legs up to drive a kick home.

Detail.

Intent in the man's eyes.

It's a lightning movement with the right hand and Steve braces himself and twists away the whole damn half-inch to avoid the blow. Straight to the soft parts of the belly. It's made with the fist round the handle of the knife – not the blade, thank god, and he sees the tease in the man's eyes seconds before the blow takes out air, turning the green of the forest into a blur, spinning him round on his wrists, firing agony to his neck and shoulders.

Detail. The guy places a hand on Steve's hip to steady him. Steve can't lift his head. He's trying to get back breathe from the blow, trying to ready himself for the next, sweat dripping from his face, sweat filling his eyes, but he sees the guy's other hand, toying with the knife and then - the heat of fear again and he instinctively flinches his head forward in some feeble protection - the knife rips off the rash vest- six quick slashes that nick his skin at his chest and sides and he can't hardly stifle the cries as the pain kicks in.

The man takes a step back to admire his handy-work.

"Good to see you still keep yourself fit, McGarrett. Civilian life not turned you into a fat lazy slob of cop."

Steve is aware of the vest being tossed to one side. But all he can see is the forest floor – the detail of leaves. Moss. Earth. His sweat dripping dark. Effort. Trying to get his breathing right in a chest pulled so tight.

Effort. Slow. Slow breath down. Drive breath into the pain.

"You know the drill, McGarrett. Soften you up, first. Make you vulnerable. You feeling vulnerable yet, McGarrett? "

Steve knows the voice. But can't place it.

The blue class-room again. Joe White.

'_They make you feel vulnerable. They might even get you naked. Believe me, ladies, you won't have time to be blushing. You'll be scared.' _

The man has a common past with Steve. This much Steve now knows.

His thoughts stop abruptly as boots crunch at the broken branches in his narrow vision and the guy is swinging in a fist to pound a blow upwards – his face – blinding him - others follow – rapid - to his stomach – more to his face. Each blow jerking his shoulders. And he can't do anything but take them, grunting as each strike cuts and bruises. He struggles against the rope back at his wrists – it's only instinct to escape this thing – but his writhing simply adds to the torture. His eyes fill with tears of blood and salt. His nose runs with blood. He hears it snap once. Above the thuds that resonate through his skull. Above the thumps of fist hitting flesh. Seconds and he can't even grit his teeth as his mouth takes the brunt of the beating. And as each blow seems to intensify, as vision greys, he can't even slip into the unconsciousness that he edges on, pulled away from that relief by the tension knifing away through his arms and shoulders.

Truth, he prays it'll finish soon...

The man takes a breather.

They're both panting. Detail that Steven hears rather than sees.

"You... got it..." and Steve has to spit away the blood that bubbles at his cut lips, "out... of your... system... yet?" He surprises himself how clear his words are. He surprises himself that he even made the thought. That he's even able to emphasize the 'yet'.

He hears the man laugh.

"You're doing good, McGarrett. But then you always were the best. Top of class. Joe White's special boy."

He knows the voice. His mind madly searches for some recall to match the voice to a memory.

"Who... are... you?" he chokes out, struggling to pump air into the words. Pain, slicing, shredding across his muscles from his shoulders just won't allow him to expand his lungs that much.

The man laughs. "All in good time, McGarrett. Still have me some softening up to do. Gotta work that anger of yorn out. You remember all those lectures about anger, don't you?"

Steve squints to try and clear his vision.

Sees the man stooping down to pick up a branch, a yard or so long, studded where leaves have been cut off. His stomach clamps with dread again but he drives the fear from his eyes. He starts his prep. He starts his counting to get his breathing controlled – at least get it one notch better than gasping. He mustn't show the guy his fear.

The guy is thrashing Steve now, opening up, ripping up weals into legs and sides and the soft flesh of his upper arms. Each thwack punctuated by the guy's deep draw of breath, a syllable, a shout, as he delivers his blow with full strength and force.

"You!"

_One._ Exhale on the stroke. Reduces the pain. Then inhale.

Cutting pain. He flinches but can't move other than that. Can't escape.

"Count-ing!"

_Two._ Each blow and Steve counts. _Three_

Exhale. But he still feels the pain.

"There!"

Pain. Exhale and inhale, counting.

_Four._

And pain. To his left side.

"Mc-Gar-rett?"

'You counting there, McGarrett?' The man is mocking him.

_Five. _

_Six. _

_Seven. _

And pain. To his left side again. Again. And again.

"In! That!"

_Eight. Nine. _

And pain across his chest. That jolts and radiates along every fibre of his body, jerking him down on his wrist ties and on those shoulders. He sees nothing through the tears. He can't assess which part of him will take the next blow. He hears only the warning swish of the rod through the air. And he's counting because he was trained to concentrate, to count, to drive away fear and let anger rise.

'_They're going to kill you anyway. Go down fighting, boys. For America. For yourself. For pride.'_

"Head! Of! Yours?" Three close successive thwacks and he can't count anymore. He stops counting. He hangs limp and... takes it.

_Ha'aheo._ Pride. His father told him that.

And pain. To his right side.

'_Make something of your life, son.'_

"Push! Back!"

He knows he's grunting. Or crying out almost with every strike. He's going to die here in the forest.

"Fear! And!"

He can't count. The man is reading him. He had to be special ops trained. Seal trained. Had to be.

"Let! An-ger! In!"

He can't count.

"Works! In! Theory!"

Pain. Jesus...

'_If you don't work up that anger and hatred, then self-pity will roll in and what follows will hurt a whole lot more.' _Joe White. In the blue classroom. They're dismissed. _ 'Tuesday. Real-life simulation. Prepare.'_

Pain. Jesus... He's limp on his restraints... He doesn't care...

"But! Not!" Two strikes.

Pain. To his left arm. And he fights the grey. He's not going to show he's beaten. Or can break that easily.

" Al-Ways! In!" Three strikes.

Pain. To his right arm. He doesn't react. Just takes it. Lets the grey swallow him...

"Prac-Tice!" Two strikes.

Pain. At his sides, spiking through his shoulders, his neck through his arms.

"Mc-Gar-rett!" Three strikes.

Pain. And he just wants to know why. Because it's just so meaningless.

He needs to know why.

Danny. _'You have control issues.'_

"What do you want? What do you damn well want from me?" he sobs out. He hates he sounds so pathetic. His mind demands the answer. But his body is letting him down.

He's aware of the movement of the balaclava being worked loose. He senses the man's relief to get the heat of the wool off. He senses that he's supposed to work out, in all the bleariness that is his vision, who exactly is standing before him.

But man, if asked, he'd have trouble remembering his own name right now.

He can't lift up his head. The guy forcefully does it for him. And the world spins and he wants to vomit.

"Agnnnnn..." he moans. And feels shame at his weakness.

"See better now?" asks the man and wipes Steve's face roughly with the balaclava. It doesn't help. His world is a blur of green and green and green with grey at the edges. And he feels so sick. And he wants... he so longs... to be free of this.

Self-pity.

"It's Matt Pierson, McGarrett."

"Can't..." He shakes his head a fraction to clear the fog. "Who?"

A hand on his jaw tightens its grip. He has all that other pain but he can feel the man's nails digging into his chin. He feels the man's anger.

"No..." He tries to wrench his jaw clear but all it earns him is a fresh spasm of pain. The forest rolls away from him but the guy brings him back to the green again.

"Matt. Matt Pierson. Chief Petty Officer, Matt Pierson."

"Can't... can't be."

He remembers the voice screaming over the radio breaking all code protocols.

'_Under fire! We've lost Matt. Matt and Jonesy! Repeat! Under fire! My God, my God, I've lost Matt!'_

"Oh, but it is."

"Can't... can't... He's... dead."

"You can see, McGarrett, that I'm very much alive. But this is what we're going to find out, McGarrett. Who told you I was dead. Who told you I was dead, McGarrett?"

-H5O-


	3. Chapter 3

A/N. Again thanks to all reviewers – I can't thank the fanfic "anonymous" ones personally so I'm treating you all as a group here - and all those who pressed those alert and fav buttons! In fact, thanks to anyone who reads. It's all encouraging stuff!

Another police procedural chapter for Danny. And Steve's 'troubles' continue.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Three<span>

A day spent trailing round Oahu's marinas, followed by a night of no, or disturbed sleep and yet the whole team are at H5O HQ early the next morning. Catherine included.

Another morning and there's still no sign of Steve, the boat or his abductor.

Chin and Jenna had manned the phones all night and – you had to be inhuman if your heart didn't sink at the expression on Chin's face.

Grim, big time.

"I've just been on line with the coastguard for the latest update." He didn't want to finish. He didn't want to say what he had to say and he wouldn't meet Danny's eye. Neither would Jenna. Chin sighs knowing there is no escaping this. His hands are scanning the table-top, bringing up a load of reports on the big screens.

"They've reported three bodies turning up in the sea late last night or early this morning. All three roughly match Steve's size and build. Two were quickly identified. A suicide who drove his car off the cliff, close to Diamond Head. And a surfer caught is a riptide yesterday afternoon. Another suicide who witnesses say simply walked into the sea is unaccounted for – he could be the third body."

Or Steve.

"Suicides in Paradise?"

Chin lets it pass. He's tired and clearly dead on his feet and Danny is soon going to have to insist he goes home to get some shut-eye.

"The third body is with Max as we speak."

"But if it's Steve-"

"There's not a lot to identify," Chin says chillingly. "Caught up in the propeller of a Molokai ferry boat."

He lets that fact sink in, before continuing. "They're carrying out DNA testing but so far, indications are that the blood group is the same as both Steve's and this second suicide."

"How long... before we know," Danny hoarses out, looking to the window, breaking the minute silence that has descended on the room.

"An hour."

"Get some rest, Chin. We'll let you know... well, we'll let you know, ok?"

Chin doesn't argue and goes to his office to collect his jacket.

"Mary rang too. Her plane touches down in half an hour," he says as he leaves.

"I'll pick her up," volunteers Jenna.

"No. No. Kono and I will do that." He squeezes the bridge of his nose. What if he has to tell her that a mangled corpse found in a shipping lane is her brother? On top of everything else that she's been told.

They run her to the same hotel where Catherine has booked a room and she lets them go off to continue their search of marinas.

"Think Steve will be mad at me for returning?" she'd asked on the drive from the airport. "If he ever... finds out..." she trails off.

And Kono politely says, "not at all."

The McGarretts are a tough breed, thinks Danny. Mary sits in the back of the Camaro listening to their updates, which isn't much. Her eyes big and sad, he notices in the rear-view mirror. When he gets her gear out of the back, she simply says, "I guess we're just one unlucky family, Danny" and walks off to check in.

"Have you..." he hesitates, wondering if his question is going to be all that tactful. "Have you money for this?" he waves at the hotel. Steve has told him about her "unstable" background.

"Why Danny, you sound like a cop," she says, half-smiling. But she looks lost and alone as she makes her way through the hotel door.

An hour later and another marina is ticked off the list that Kono has prepared of registered owners of power boats. They've been doing this for a whole day now and they're getting too accustomed to drawing blanks. And all they have to go on is Catherine's hunch that she's seen something like a shark, painted in all the twirls and swirls of the Baja Outlaw. A nod to some customization.

Coastguard patrol boats and choppers, aided and abetted by one Navy Seal chopper had, one by one, struck Oahu private coves and jetties off their own lists, till finally, they'd had to call it a day. Danny had been on the phone to Governor Jameson discussing Steve's abduction, and had suggested extending the search to near-by Molokai. He could hear her veritable frown down the phone at using taxpayers' aka future voters' money but she'd relented. She said she cared for and had much respect for Steve. Nice speech.

She could have argued that it was all too late. Steve's abductor seemed to have well and truly gone to ground.

Danny squints at the yachts and cruisers, bobbing up and down on a turning tide – well, he was told it was turning – he really hadn't a clue and didn't especially care. There sure was some gold's worth of stuff at this particular marina, just a stone's throw from the Hawaiian Holiday Village, glittering glaringly white in the afternoon sun. If stolen and used for the abduction, most of these expensive babies were fitted with GPS and therefore traceable. He gives them one last look before they move on – they've probably been wasting their time here.

The next marina on the list is more salubrious. You'd never believe it was the same Oahu. Broken jetties about to disintegrate into the water. Boats that would never make it ten yards away from the slips or moorings. Paint darkened with age. Black curtains that twitch with approaching footsteps – homeless living on board illegally. A haunt of drug dealers and clients. There are a few half decent boats – even a half semblance at security with a gate and guard hut close to a car-park. This would be the neighbourhood of scams, where tourists, green to Honolulu would be ripped off with a cheap fishing deal by owners with no license to hire out, only to find all those exorbitant hidden added extras, or a drunken pilot with no insurance.

This was his, and Chin's world, before they were 'seconded' into Hawaii 5-O.

It'd be the sort of place to slip in, and hope that you wouldn't be noticed. Where, if you handed over cash, no one would ask questions as to your itinerary. Where you were heading. The place you'd just left. Who you were with. Any unusual cargo. No wonder Narcotics frequently did drug busts here.

Catherine and Kono have reached the end of their chosen jetty and he soon joins up with them.

"Nothing?"

Kono shakes her head, but Danny can see that from the faces of both women already.

"Me neither."

At all these marinas, he's been sticking Steve's photo under the nose of anyone he comes across. But always he's met with the same shake of the head. And he's getting tired of the same questions and the same negative answers.

'Anyone late returning? Anything suspicious? Anyone acting, you know, _suspiciously_?'

He hates it. Hates that Steve's face is all over the news bulletins. And that HPD are also flashing Steve's photo all over the island. This isn't right that Steve is at the centre of an investigation like this. A victim. A missing person.

"I say we finish here and call it a day? Go for a coffee and a bite?" It's only an hour before they lose the light. Both Kono and Catherine look bushed. No one had slept the previous night. None had had much in the way of lunch. Catherine looks ill with dark shadowed eyes.

Catherine shakes her head. "I can't Danny." And she looks out to sea. "I can't bear the thought of another day with that sun going down and he's not found. Not here with us. He's out there somewhere and he needs our help."

How can she be sure he isn't... dead? The awful thought had crossed his own mind so many times in the last twenty-four hours or so.

She reads his mind. "He's alive, Danny. I just know he is."

"You must try and eat, Catherine," Kono encourages. But Catherine shakes her head again and makes off to the next jetty. Kono pulls a face and follows her, leaving Danny to check out his second line of boats.

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks before the cops of Florida had found that other guy. Is that all they had, two weeks to find Steve? And nearly two days of investigation had gone so fast with no headway? And he looks at the moored up boats jostling shoulder to shoulder, and to the sea beyond.

Soon the sea would darken, emphasizing the postcard golden Hawaiian sunset with its black silhouette palms. A sign that tomorrow would be another hot day.

And he had to admit to the same emotion as Catherine – he hated the thought of another day closing and still no sign of Steve.

He turns at the sudden sound of raised voices some three boats off.

"You wanna fight? Wot beef?" There's a big guy ahead of him who could easily be Kamekona's cousin except he's twice as ugly - if that's ever possible - whose bulk completely blocks the boardwalk. And very nearly the sun too. And he's arguing with a haole – even though Danny has only been in Hawaii a year, he's already acquired the ability to spot them a mile off. He's standing his ground. He's a brave man considering he's only Danny's height. And considering the way the wannabe-sumo wrestler is squaring him up for a hold.

"And I told you, I'm not fucking paying for the broken rail. It was like that when I took it out!"

"Wot you saying? We hire out deficit boats?" And Danny, in spite of everything, has to stifle a smile. Yeah, must be Kamekona's bruddah. And the haole has got to be drunk not to see who was going to be loser here. Ok. Danny inwardly sighs. Cue for him to do his police officer's duty and good deed for the day and prevent a fellow mainlander ending up in the ocean.

He strides over and forces himself between the two men. Which isn't easy when you think of the mountainous dimensions of one.

"Ok. Ok. Let's get the decibels and violence rating down to something like a PG rating, huh? Families about." And he points to his badge without removing it from his belt.

"You a cop? He bust ma boat! I'm not handing back the deposit."

"Five thousand dollars for a chipped rail? You've got to be fucking kidding me! Five thousand dollars! Does that sound reasonable to you?" This to Danny. And no, it wasn't. "And I said it was like that before I set out this morning!"

Danny glances at the boat, looking for the rail in question.

And sees the chipped chrome on the swimming platform at the rear.

He freezes.

Memories of Steve climbing on board and appearing to hurt his leg. The way a stray bullet from Danny's own firearm had glanced off the handrail in that exactly same place.

He quickly stoops down to examine the rail more closely and that silences the two sparring men.

No way, no way can that be blood...

"Did you - or your partner," there's a woman in a bikini and a wrap, coming down the jetty looking concerned, "hurt yourselves on the rail?"

The haole is looking over Danny's shoulder to the boat.

"What is that? You found blood?" he asks Danny. And then hurtles more questions at Sumo Wrestler. "See I could have hurt myself? Think yourself lucky I don't sue!"

"I make sure all our boats are safe!" sulks Sumo-Wrestler.

"Yeah, well... you don't clean them! It filthy inside."

"We hire out the best boats!"

Danny stands, tired of the bickering. He has more important things to do.

"Cool it!" he says bluntly and he's gratified that they do. He can now hear himself think as he pulls out his phone to contact Chin. "How long was your hire?" He asks of the haole sideways as the call dials through.

"A day. We took it out this morning."

A day at sea and there would still be blood? Though... lucky wasn't exactly the right word.

"You have documents to prove that?" Still, Chin doesn't answer.

The haole's build, however, is a total wrong match for Balaclava Man. He's skinny, with a paunch belly – in a desk-job obviously – no way could he conceivably have even lifted a submachine gun let alone fire one.

But at the mention of documents the big guy started to look shifty. Ah ha... an illegal hire-out. Not licensed. Not insured. No wonder the boat hadn't appeared on Kono's radar. And they were right to check out all boats in all marinas.

The haole is quickly trying to find his papers in a holdall and stands, waving them annoyingly close to Danny's face. Danny bats it away after catching sight of the names of John and Kate Simpson. He sees no reason to think the paperwork stating the times the boat went out aren't kosher.

He's through to Chin.

He nearly says, 'we've struck lucky.'

"Chin, I think we've found our boat. Get a forensics team down to Napo'o'ana Marina." Suddenly, he spots Kono and Catherine on the neighbouring jetty. They're running round to re-join him.

And they're both pointing to the boat. Catherine is shouting "shark!" and he waves back across the water and nods. Though he can't see the motif - the boat is too low in the water.

"Ok," and he turns back to Sumo-Wrestler, " now I need to see more papers, in particular I need details as to who hired out this vessel early yesterday morning." Though he knows the odds the name will be fraudulent are high. "First, however, you pay Mr and Mrs Simpson back their deposit." Sumo Wrestler is three times Danny's weight and could hurl both him and his crabby customer into the sea. But there's enough authority in his voice to make the man pale with worry.

Some days, Danny loves his work.

"Was hapning?"

"Your boat's being impounded, that's what's happening. It's a crime scene." Time to flash his badge. "Hawaii Five-O. Detective Williams. And I need you to help me with my investigations. You have an office? Where you keep records, don't you? Well, I need to see them."

"Ma boat's being confiscated? You can't do that!"

"Watch me."

Sumo Wrestler now looks like he's going to try that move after all. Or else run. If he could. Though that might be doubtful.

He's scared.

Especially now there's the sound of distant sirens. The cavalry. And not before time.

Kono, now close-by, is drawing out her firearm, only slightly breathless from her recent sprint.

She has excellent sixth sense.

The little guy and his wifey are looking nervous at police badges and drawn weapons and obviously want to leave. Danny doesn't blame them.

"In two minutes, this place is going to be swarming with HPD. I wouldn't try anything except being the nice honest citizen that you are, happy and obliging. You are happy and obliging, aren't you? First we start, with introductions. You didn't tell me your name or the name of your company?"

The big guy's lips are quavering as he watches six HPD vehicles screech to a halt in the car park, pouring out their contents into the late Hawaiian sunshine.

"It ain't ma boat."

"You said it was."

"Ma boss's boat."

"But there_ is_ a hire manifesto?" The big guy looks uncomfortably out to sea.

"Internet." He mumbles so Danny isn't sure he caught that exactly.

"I didn't hear, you gonna have to repeat that. And you still haven't told me your name."

"Jason Keeho. My boss does all his transactions on-line."

"My colleague here will need a website and email address."

"I dunno it. I have nothing to do with that."

"But you know the name. He does pay you?"

"Cash. In an envelope. Left in my mail box."

"Hmmm... I'm sure Revenue would like to hear you say that," says Kono, who still hasn't lowered her gun but if it makes Sumo Wrestler sweat a little and loosen his tongue, Danny was beyond caring.

"But, Mr Keeho, you're here to meet customers? So you know who took the boat out at say, 7 a.m. yesterday morning?"

"Wasn't my shift."

"And it wasn't your shift either when the boat was returned."

Of course not.

And right on cue, the man brightens as if he's in the clear.

"No. Our client came back at night."

So he wouldn't be seen. Under cover of darkness.

Kono exchanges a sharp look. "Somehow slipped through the coastguard grid search."

It was never going to be easy. Picking out one boat.

"But the passing of nearly twelve hours before he landed?" asks Catherine anxiously from behind Kono.

They were thinking the same thoughts. Did it mean that Steve might have been killed and dumped -that word again and he grimaced - at sea? They still hadn't heard back from Max yet as to the identity of that third body.

Kono kept them focussed and on track. "That usual? To come back at night?"

"No. Partaying sometimes," shrugs Sumo-Wrestler. "Find a cove and stay out till first light."

The guys in the white coveralls arrive and the group shift further along the jetty to make way so they have access to the boat.

Kono holsters her hand-gun. "There's no surveillance cameras Danny, but a security hut. I'll go and ask the guard what he knows?" Danny nods.

Catherine looks lost. She stands at the jetty edge, gazing down at the lapping water, trying but not succeeding to look at the boat and all the forensic team clambering all over it.

"So, whose shift was it? I know, you don't know that either."

"Look, can my wife and I leave now? We've nothing to do with all this." And Mr Simpson looks nervously around at the cops.

"I'm sorry. You'll have to go with one of the officers," he beckons over Duke, "and make a statement. Have fingerprints taken so you can be eliminated by our lab boys." He feels sorry for them. He didn't think they were fabricating their story or were implicated in any way. Keeho less so.

"This is serious," says the woman appalled. "We only hired a boat."

"Yes, this is serious. Abduction of a police officer. You can't get more serious than that. And Mr Keeho here, too." He says to Duke. "You can book him for obstruction. You, sir are in very, very serious trouble."

"Waha?" and two boys in blue are handcuffing him. "I didn't do nothing."

"You didn't do nothing? You didn't do nothing?" He's indignant. They could have been a whole day further forward with this investigation. "You pissed me off. And that's plenty. It's all over the news. You can't possibly have missed it. Requesting information on any unusual boat activity. You could have come forward. You want a reason to charge you? You pissed me off!"

The man is cursing as they lead him down the jetty, his weight creaking the wooden slats. Danny wonders how they'll ever fit him into the patrol car. He really ought to tell them to let him go as he doubts Keeho can tell them anymore than he has done.

Kono returns and nods back to the guard house.

"They keep a log of comings and goings. But it's sloppy. Omissions. " It wouldn't be the first time a guard fell asleep on the job. Or had female company in a backroom. Or accepted a bribe. "The guard doesn't know anything about Keeho's boss. Just that they keep three boats here. He's given me the number of his own company and I've phoned it in to Chin and Jenna, see if they can track down the money trail."

Payments had to have been made from Keeho's boss to Napo'o'ana Marina. The abductor had to have paid Keeho's boss. As did the Simpsons. Otherwise Keeho would be sent to beat them up. Online transactions that shouldn't be difficult to trace.

Danny puts his hands on his hips sighing, looking out to the distant horizon. Kono was possibly clutching at straws. "I dunno, Kono. I can't believe the abductor would make it that easy for us. A genuine bank account with actual funds in it, yeah. But he'd have used a fake ID to set it up."

"At least we have a place to start, Danny," she says earnestly. "He's going to slip up somewhere. But surely, Keeho knows more than he's saying. He has authority to deny the return of the deposit?"

"A scam. _No-one_ gets their deposit returned. Get Chin to question him. Perhaps an hour in the cells will make him realize his pay-grade doesn't justify that much loyalty to his boss."

"The guard also gave me the name and address of the night-watch man. Timmy Lee. 2 Linau Street."

Just off China Town.

"Ok, I'll get on it." He looks to the despondent Catherine still staring at the sea. "Can you get someone to drive her back to the hotel?"

"More tea and biscuits?" Kono nods. She looks like she could do with that kind of sympathy too. Why is it, that their latest - _only_ - break-through isn't filling anyone with that much joy?

"And let me know what these guys find?" He hooks a finger to forensics as he walks off to the car-park. He won't bother looking into the boat. It's been too messed up by the Simpsons' day out. He doubts whether these guys can do anything but confirm that Steve was on board.

And he's jumping into the Camaro. A fleeting pang – how it's always been Steve who grabs the driver's seat first. It's something that irritates him – a lot - but he'd rather have Steve back doing that, claiming his Boss-Partner's prerogative, being all Navy Commander, than making up a figure in this month's crime statistics.

Steve, in command.

And here's Danny, taking over that position of command to investigate Steve's own disappearance. It felt so wrong.

And Danny's just not ready for this sort of promotion.

'_It goes with the job',_ he hears Steve telling him.

_Too right, babe._

And he turns the key.

-H5O-

Detail. Clarity.

Flooding into his brain. Operation Ghosthawk. The confusion. Faces around him. Dark camouflage paint. Whites of their eyes. And he's desperately holding down his own Commander - who, a minute before, had lost his foot and lower leg to a man-trap. His gloved hand stifles the man's screams – they mustn't be discovered. He feels the man go limp finally, bleeding out his life in his arms despite Reid's tourniquet. The stickiness of the blood... The sudden crack crack of the gunfire. From a direction it shouldn't have come. Then. The voice on the radio. He remembers the fear in the voice on the radio. He remember his own fear – no, no, doubt – doubt in his ability to command – but he'd put that down – he's trained. He took in the new info and acted on it. Aborted the mission. Quickly. To save lives.

"I didn't know... I didn't know, man." And he hates that he sounds like he's pleading his case like this. But it's genuine regret.

"I know you didn't," comes Pierson's reply. Flat. No emotion. But no anger either. "But I need that name. I need the name of the guy who _did_ know."

Pierson backs off, receding from Steve's vision. And Steve tries to shift on his wrist ties, holding back the hiss of pain. Concern. Panic what Pierson might do next. Pierson wants a name... but this whole set-up... it looks like revenge too. Has to be.

Steve struggles to focus. His sight. His left upper cheek is swelling up – it's impossible to track Pierson down. He struggles to focus his thoughts too. He needs to keep them straight. He needs to forget the unbearable tension going through every nerve-ending of his chest and shoulders. He needs to talk. He needs to talk this through. He needs to draw Pierson back into a conversation.

Where? Where? Where is Pierson? Nothing but the blur of green.

Boots crunch on vegetation. Pierson comes into view again. Stepping over the debris of leaves on the forest floor. Pacing as he talks.

"You pulled out too soon, McGarrett. You left men behind. You acted on information of others. Didn't check the situation out."

"The mission..." He starts his... excuse? "The mission went belly-up – we had to get clear-"

"I'm not arguing the point here, McGarrett. You don't have to justify anything. You had to do what you had to do. I was trained too. I was trained to know I could trust my fellow Seal too. Trust. Blind faith that the man at your side would pull through for you. When someone said, men were dead, you believed them. And looked after the survivors. That's how it should have been."

"Cut me down, Pierson." His arms were at breaking point. Sure of it. Soon... soon, he wouldn't be able to follow... it's difficult to concentrate again... to get his words right... clear... each one he gasps out, drawing in breath that slices hot at his chest... Each word cuts at his damaged mouth...

Self-pity. But he can't find the anger to drive it out.

"We'll get this sorted." He tries to put empathy, understanding into his voice. Not begging. "Pierson. Give this up. Nothing..."

He shakes his head... to find words that keep eluding him – the simple action nearly kills him. "They'll find you - you'll never get out of Hawaii. They'll find you."

Pierson laughs.

"You threatening me?"

"No, no, man. Advice."

"They'll find me. You think? Two days and they haven't so far. But for your sake, sooner rather than later, huh? So this is your Hawaii 5-O? I approve of your trust in your fellow man, McGarrett. Comes of experience. Wished I'd had that. Being able to trust."

"Let... me... go, Pierson. This is... going nowhere. We can take this to... naval command."

The man laughs again.

"What good would that do? You don't get it. No one likes to admit they make mistakes. You guys would close ranks. I've been out of the equation for four years. Time changes things. Has changed me. I've turned rogue, McGarrett. You guys have formed closer relationships. You owe one another. You owe me nothing. I know the Seal mind-set. You look after one another. I've already beaten two men to death, McGarrett, to extract that name. Think I might be a condemned man. It's too late."

Two men dead already? Steve feels his case for reason dissolving around him.

"What do you want me to say? Sorry. Then I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry." He knows he sounds like he's pleading again but he hopes he conveys his total sincerity. "I'm not..." He's gasping for breath here, blinking away the tears of perspiration as the pain from his chest and shoulder muscles continue to spike through his body - breathing words that aren't coming easy. "I'm not trying to save my skin here... I mean it."

Pierson stops his pacing and Steve senses the man hesitating. Believing him. Whatever has changed for Pierson, he must know that Steve would never change. The McGarrett Seal of four years ago is still the same McGarrett today.

"You might be sorry, McGarrett but it doesn't mean you don't have to pay. It doesn't mean you don't have to pay some part of the due."

Pierson begins pacing again but Steve can barely track him. His left shoulder is excruciating. He swallows back a wave of nausea. His vision greys. He shakes his head again. As much as he can. Which isn't a great deal. He needs to clear his mind. To find Pierson's voice obscured in some cloud. The voice fades... words drone in the green misty haze of the forest. But the man seems like he wants to talk. To unburden.

"I've nothing to lose, McGarrett. Leaving me behind destroyed me. Think I'd care if I end up dead? In prison? Where do you think I spent the first of those four years? I was taken prisoner, McGarrett. This is what they did to me, too, McGarrett. Roughed me up a bit. I wasn't dead. I took a scratch on the thigh and a graze here," and Steve senses rather than sees that Pierson points to his forehead. "A bullet graze but you know how much head wounds bleed. I was out cold. Not enough to be pronounced dead. I had a pulse. Someone panicked, McGarrett. And I want to know who. And I want to know..."

He doesn't hear Pierson's last words... lost in a noisy buzzing in his ears... he's sure he says sorry again... he's sure he gasps that out and means it... he starts as his right shoulder makes a popping noise. His scream dies in his throat and the world goes dark in an instant.

He's awake again as he's dropped to his knees, and he rolls over, moaning, as white hot agony fires his shoulder – it should be relief to be free of the rope, but it's freaking well not. Pierson's arm grabs him, surrounds him, hugs him, holds his chest tight – and, unable to comprehend the reason why, Steve fights against that hold, half-sobbing with the pain of a dislocated shoulder.

"Quiet, McGarrett.! Quiet! I'm trying to help you here!" His wrists are untied and – his right arm – a sudden jerk and the forest rushes from him, flopping him forward into drifting blackness.

He comes round again. He's soon panting for breathe and sweat pours from him. Assess – update - detail – his arm feels a part of him now – Pierson must have fixed his shoulder - but with it, comes all the associated pain. Throbbing persists - his head too – dehydration - and he dry coughs against the heaving in his stomach, re-opening the cut on his lip. He's so parched his tongue is sealed to the roof of his mouth.

Where?

Awareness extends beyond his shoulder. He can't make it out. Something like slim metal rods press hard against his swollen left cheek. Detail that he can't comprehend. He lifts his head with a sense of urgency. Must find out. And must find out what Pierson is doing... pain knifes him again and he passes out.

Seconds? Minutes? And he wakes to the memory and relief again that he's not hanging from his wrists. He's possibly slept hours. His pain, especially from his neck and shoulder, is reduced to a dull ache, a stiffness that make him wary of moving. He's curled over on his left side, foetus style with legs drawn up... uncomfortable... something sharp is sticking into the flesh of his ribs, hips and thighs. And he must be secured again, as both arms are pulled behind him. But not tight. Pierson is being nice to him?

He feels like he wants to sleep again. Fatigue. Possibly even hunger. He can't make the effort to move. He must do better than this though. He must keep awake. He needs to talk Pierson out of this. He needs to see a way to escape. Play for time. _Anything._ But right now, the detail that his foggy brain takes in, is... greenery cut into neat squares... steel wire... and his eyes shoot wide open now – detail -

He's in a goddamned cage.

He panics. Immediately shifting to check, ignoring all pain but his movement is restricted - he desperately tugs, first at his left wrist, then his right. Left ankle. Right ankle. Each, in turn, are manacled and chained to the cage's four corners.

He's caged like an animal.

He jerks the short chains. No give. No room to move. The most he can ever hope to do is sit up but with his injuries he's best where he is. He tries to focus again – on any cage fasteners. Locks. He really can't see that clearly. His left eye is virtually seized up. They're probably located at the top, a couple of feet above his head. The chains on the manacles at his wrists won't reach that far.

And he notices, in all this, that Pierson has applied a dressing to the gash on his thigh. What the hell...?

Shadow. A sudden movement. He freezes. And Pierson is stooping beside him, peering in. Then Pierson stands, finishing off the remnants of coffee, shaking out the last of the drips from his cup. The bitter smell sends Steve's stomach roiling. And he gulps the nausea down. The action hurts like crazy. Swallowing cracks open his throat on the inside. Outside, he must have taken some damage from the beating.

The coffee reminds him how thirsty he is.

"It's simple, McGarrett. Give me that name, and I'll let you drink. You must be feeling pretty sick by now. Your injuries. Nothing to drink in the past twenty-four hours or so. This heat. The humidity. It can really lay a guy low. Even someone like you. You train, don't you? I bet you eat all the right foods. But you know the long range forecast?" And he looks up to a cloudless sky – but Steve doesn't see it ... he instinctively follows Pierson's gaze but the tree tops spin and he closes his eyes against the dizziness.

"They forecast a record breaking heat wave?"

Steve vaguely remembers the media hype. Words of advice. And Danny ranting on about carcinomas and sun-cream.

"You badly need to re-hydrate."

Pierson moves off towards the tent and Steve attempts to follow him, blinking away the mucus and tears in his left eye.

He notices that Pierson walks with a limp.

The man returns and, slowly, deliberately, places a water bottle on top of the cage. Steve blinks again, squinting upwards to the sky. Detail. He sees the condensation beading, glistening blue.

"You need to drink. You know that."

Steve swallows hard and spits out words between cut lips.

"Dead. And I won't be able to tell you what you need to know."

He remembers again the voice on the radio.

'_We've lost Matt. Matt and Jonesy! Repeat! Under fire! My God, my God, I've lost Matt! We need covering fire!'_

Because Pierson is right. McGarrett has that name. As long as he keeps quiet and doesn't reveal it, Pierson will keep him alive.

"True," Pierson concedes with a grimace. "We'll see how this unfolds. Who gives in first, huh? But why push it that far?"

"Let me go," growls Steve. He knows it's pointless to threaten Pierson, but he's feeling some of that anger now. The cage pretty much did that.

Pierson sighs. "Or else?" He starts to pace again.

"They put _me_ in a cage, McGarrett. Like a chicken run. But this," and he waves a hand at Steve's cage, "is the nearest I can get to be authentic. I don't know where they took me. Forced to march – always in that jungle. Their camp, the cage was in a jungle. That's why I brought you up here – lucky you live in Hawaii, huh?" Steve senses that he smiles wryly but Steve can't see the funny side. "Authenticity. Took me two days to clear this site." The man laughs at his own joke. "Even now, I don't know where they held me. I tried googling the location once but there was nothing but that damn jungle for miles and miles. You guys were lucky you got out. Would have been easy to have gotten lost. "

It'd taken two weeks of evasive tactics while caring for two injured men. Two further shootouts with the mercenaries... narrow escapes... by-passing Chinese towns and settlement, travelling only at night, finding routes cut off, taking detours that took them scores of miles off the most direct line to the designated pick-up point, supplies running low, finding directions using only a compass and the stars, before reaching the Chinese coast just north of Shanghai. There, Steve had dared to break radio silence for the first time, contacting a sub that had waited just in case, that was about to sail that very night – they'd cut it that close. If they'd missed it, it would have meant weeks of trying to reach Vietnam.

Steve had done it before. In the wild terrain of Korea. But then he'd been alone. On this mission, he had the remnants of two teams to consider, unable to split up - not with the two injured men - travelling with the constant danger that a large group had a higher risk of getting discovered. Keeping everyone close and important. Keeping up morale. But they were all good men. How could one of them have made that mistake and left Pierson for dead? Deliberate? Even so, Steve feels responsible. He's never going to give Pierson that name. He needs to hold off. But for how long? Pierson eventually is going to tire and kill him finally. For revenge.

"Days on end they beat the crap out of me," continues Pierson. "Just like our SERE training but for real. These guys weren't kidding. I wasn't alone though. There were others. In other pens. But we weren't allowed to talk to each other. If you did, you earned yourself extra beatings. One day, they got angry and they took two out and shot them through the head. Just like that. I don't know if that was for my benefit. I couldn't pick up the local dialect – head too far gone with the beatings. I guess someone didn't pay a ransom. You soon learnt to do as you're told. But I never told them what they wanted to know. The country responsible for sending us there. And though I got left behind, I kept my mouth shut. I did that for my country, McGarrett. Earned my full military memorial and posthumous Medal of Honour, didn't I? I see from newspaper articles that you attended. Always brushed up nice in that uniform, didn't you?"

"They'll take it away from you."

"Think I care about medals, and dishonour to my name? _Now_?" No, Steve didn't think that. It'd felt like a lame thing to say when he said it. He's searching for some angle to get Pierson on his side, but the state Steve's in... he's way off his game.

"We can... still talk. Get an enquiry." Steve was back to that one. "I'm... prepared to accept... responsibility..." he mumbles. He isn't even sure he's making sense. Exhaustion is getting to him again. The bars of the cage, Pierson's boots planted near his head, the foliage, warped tree trunks - all seem to shift and dance.

"Take the blame for the wrong doing of others? Think you're already doing that, don't you? You know which of those bastards said I was dead. But you won't say?"

"Coz... coz... I _do_ accept full responsibility. No one else was to blame. I was in charge. Blame rests absolutely with me." He doesn't know how far he can push this without giving Pierson provocation to kill him immediately.

"Yeah, I've heard all about your doing-good saint syndrome."

"I do... accept full responsibility – it's the honest truth. Believe me. I'm not giving you that name, for this reason."

" I'm well aware of the part you played and do plan to make sure the debt you owe me – four years of my life gone – is re-paid. But this other guy, he owes me more. A lot more."

"Let me go..." Steve pulls at his chains, winces as he's reminded of his injuries. He's losing the argument. "We'll go to the authorities – I'll give you the name then. You haven't approached anyone..." If he had, then Steve would have heard by now.

"Your enquiry? I asked you before, what good would that do? We weren't even supposed to be there. China never gave us authorisation. Think I'd get a hearing? I said, you guys close ranks. With a state secret at stake, even more so. Think the guilty party would be called to account? I've got to do this myself."

"Why?" his brain is too blurry to work this out and he tries to ease himself into a more comfortable position in the cage. "It'd be... it'd be behind closed doors, yeah. But I know people... sympathetic hearing... I'd overlook... all this."

"I'd never get that enquiry. They'd take one look at crazy me and it'd be a straight A-line to the nearest shrink and mental hospital. Post traumatic shock and all that. They'd want to keep this under wraps. They would want me shut up for good. I'd never be free. And I'm sure as hell never going to be a prisoner ever again."

It comes to Steve then. "No one even knows you're alive, do they?"

The man looks away to the tree tops. Steve follows his gaze. The blue of the sky is still too bright and he blinks painfully against the glare but he sees it again... The black spot of a swooping bird. The hawk.

"No. No one knows I'm alive," says Pierson quietly and Steve feels renewed hope he can talk the man out of this. "Not even my family." And how can any longer feel anger towards this guy?

"Eventually, after a year of... praying for death, the mercenaries gave up on me. I ran errands. Did them... favours, and with time, I joined up with them. The very mercenaries we were sent to stamp out trusted me enough to put a gun in my hand."

"You didn't have to go rogue."

"They understood what was driving me. The need to get out of there and find that person. I earned my keep and got my lift out to Shanghai. They provided me with new papers, a new identity and links to join associates, gangs on the mainland. I proved myself more useful to them than political bait. Knew how special forces operate. Even knew some names. Who might be bribed. I'm a fully paid up member of the Florida yakuza. Very useful if you ever have a need for counterfeit ids and bank accounts. Don't think I won't break you, McGarrett. I've had three years working with the bad guys. I have their blessing to be here. Your fame has gone before you. They'd rather I kill you, you know. But, I'll spare you if you give me that name."

"Good guy, bad guy, huh?"

"Something like that. Good guy, bad guy, it's down to you, which."

"No." And he surprises himself how quickly that comes out.

"No?"

Steve shakes his head. A second 'no' comes as a whisper.

"Who are you trying to protect, McGarrett? And why? What do you owe these men of four years ago? One of whom led you to breaking that unwritten law: 'you never leave a man behind'? "

"However justified you think this is, it's not. Those Seals... all of us... were simply doing their jobs to the best of their ability."

"You could always give a good speech, couldn't you, Steve? Trained you well. How to talk a man round. But I had that training too."

Pierson abruptly grabs for the water bottle and limps over towards the tent again. "So, we start. You were warned, McGarrett."

-H5O-


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Again thanks for the response to "Forgive me". You are all made of determined stuff to wade through the last chapter without much in the way of Steve Whump. Perhaps Chapter 4 is your reward... ;-)

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Four<span>

Danny is about ready to use brute force on the door to 2, Lanau Street. With its rusty hinges and badly peeling paint, it probably wouldn't have taken that much effort.

Though the bell still works. Danny knows that. Danny has been leaning on the button for a full whole minute.

He takes a step back from the house to look for any signs of life or inhabitants. Like the flicker of a curtain. It's one of dozens in the street, situated in a seedier side of Honolulu, the one the tour operators and glossy brochures don't show you. But he supposes it's the same as any city on the mainland, except with more sunshine hours and ready access to surf and pineapples.

The man is yawning when he eventually decides to open up for Danny, noisily rattling a security chain but not unlatching it, choosing, commendably, like he's read all the police brochures on home protection, to peer through the two inch gap.

"Timmy Lee?" He's of Far Eastern ethnic background, not shaven, another one with a paunch that clearly says the overexertion to get from his bed to answer the door just wasn't his thing. But even as he wipes and blinks his eyes free of sleep, Danny can't help feel sorry for him. Danny fully understands what it's like to get the graveyard shift.

There the sympathy ends. For here is another person, for reasons known unto himself, who hasn't observed TV news requesting info. So... Timmy Lee took a bribe. Though, and the sympathy ebbs back a little... that's down to the man unable to say 'no' due to poverty.

'You're too swift to judge people,' criticized Rachel once. But it's his job to make fast, but accurate assessments. Pity he didn't get it right with Rachel...

Danny sticks his badge right under Lee's nose to make sure he actually sees the thing.

"Hawaii Five-O. Mind opening the door?" And Danny indicates with his hands that he'd like the two inch gap extended to conversation size – a full foot might do it. Lee obliges and Danny butts in quick with his first question – he really hasn't the time to be messing with cordialities. "You the night security at Napo'o'ana Marina?"

"Why you wake me up? I have to start work in two hours. Why you people hound decent folk?"

"No. No. You have it wrong. I get to ask the questions, my friend. OK?"

The man frowns and then wearily lays his head against the doorpost. He looks ready to fall asleep there on his feet.

Danny reaches forward and slaps his face. Both cheeks. And he would have thrown cold water over the man too if it'd been close to hand.

The man stands bolt upright, ruefully rubbing at his bristly stubble – designer facial hair, it is not – and then examines his hand as if Danny has drawn blood.

"You hurt me," he grumbles.

"A slap."

"That's police brutality."

"To the contrary. I'm actually helping you not to fall asleep while you answer police questions. And to help you further, I'm starting with an easy-peezy one. Last night. Late. A boat hire was returned to the Marina. You see anything of those on board?"

The man leans heavily on the doorpost again and is soon going to earn himself another slap.

"See? Anything?"

"Yes. See. You know with that 20-20 vision of yours."

The man screws up his face. Understands the insult. And Danny can literally see the cogs whirring. What's in it for him.

"Yeah. I saw them. "

"I thought you might have done." He _hoped_ he might have done. "But nothing was logged down?"

"I open and close the gates. Don't have anything to do with the boat hires."

"Didn't think it unusual that the boat was returned late at night?" And therefore should have been reported to the HPD.

The man shrugs.

" 'Shark Boats'? Their customers usually lose their deposits for one reason or another. Returning out-of-hours don't make much difference. Those guys are crooks. And the man didn't seem bothered. His friend was sick. He just wanted to get him taken care of."

Something in Danny's insides lunged. In luck again and picking up Steve's trail – but Steve was sick? Or injured? Or even, drugged?

"Sick?"

"Yeah, _sick." _And the man laughed. "You could call it that. They'd been out partying somewhere. His friend was wasted. I warned them he'd better not throw up all over the jetty." That's when Lee was bribed, guesses Danny. "He had to be half-carried. Like this." And Lee holds out an arm, all crooked up. "He would have fallen over otherwise. They staggered to the jeep."

Jeep.

"Then you can give a description of both men?"

"The one who was sick? No. He was all huddled up in a blanket. Shivering. Couldn't get warm. Like he'd been swimming. Perhaps he'd fallen in the sea. He was bad. The other..." and he considers, "not much of a look either. Lighting not too good."

"Build. Height. Anything." Danny tries not to sound that desperate.

"Both men. Six foot. Slim. The jeep driver, dark hair. Both men, muscular, like they trained."

"So you let them out the gate? Description of the vehicle? You noted down the make and license plate though you didn't write it up? An oversight, obviously."

"Yeah, oversight... Jeep Wrangler X. Red. Four- door. Hard top. KTF 339."

He didn't think the man was lying.

"Nothing else? No distinguishing marks? Scratches? Logos?"

"I told you. It was dark. Sorry."

Lee must see the look in Danny's eyes – he can't hide it – the disappointment he feels.

"You looking for that H5O chief?" The man was finally waking up? "You think one of those two men was him? Jeez, right under my nose. I should have reported it. But... the driver just seemed to be such a regular good guy, looking after his friend, you know? I just didn't make the connection. Sorry."

"You did good. No worries. Get back to sleep." And Danny's already heading back to the Camaro, freeing his phone from a pocket, placing it on the dash as he slips into the driver's seat. He starts up and heads off to HQ, putting the phone on speaker, to update Chin with that license plate and description. He's inwardly cursing the fact that he's about to get caught in rush-hour traffic.

"Give us a minute, Danny, while I run this through the computer."

Danny waits. He's not going anywhere. No sooner is he on the freeway than he joins a queue held up by road-works. He could walk faster.

Chin gets back to him

"Turns out it's a hire – owned by a company that goes by the name of Keanu Cars. It's not been reported stolen or abandoned by Traffic. Keanu Cars is open 24/7 so I'm sending Kono over to see if she can improve on Tommy Lee's description. They're bound to have security cameras. I've also notified HPD," he continues, "they're on full alert as of now. I've also asked Traffic to take a look at their camera footage. But two days worth, it's mammoth task."

Danny can imagine Chin shaking his head and pulling one of those wry faces of his.

"Good work, Chin."

Danny lets him continue talking as he swerves, cursing to avoid a traffic cone in the road.

"But I'm not holding out that much hope of finding the car. Any papers he presented for ID are bound to be false. Our abductor knows exactly what he's doing. He hires a boat we can't track. A jeep we can't track. The Wrangler is common make on the island. Hundreds get hired by tourists. Try finding one Jeep like that on traffic surveillance – he meant to blend in."

"I know. I know." Danny gives the wheel a thump of frustration. "We keep trying." It was their only lead. "Let's be optimistic here! What we do know is, that on coming to shore, Steve was still alive. He's not that third body found in the sea."

Chin audibly sighs

"I'm afraid it's not much of a silver lining, Danny. Max has just rung in confirming that. And forensics have also confirmed that the blood on the boat is Steve's."

Danny takes a risk and jumps the lights just as they're turning red. Though he has no idea why he's in such a hurry. Night is falling fast and street-lamps and car lights already dazzle. The search for Steve is over for another twelve hours. But he can never shake off that sense of urgency that he must constantly be working to bring Steve back home.

"The jeep's a hire? A hire has GPS, right?"

"If it works. If he hasn't disabled it."

Danny honks his horn as a truck in front stops suddenly allowing another ten vehicles to merge.

"Hey, you bozo! How about the same courtesy to the drivers behind? You know? The ones you're holding up here!" He throws up an arm in disgust. He knows it's not exactly driving with aloha. And he knows he's tense. And he gets the deserved Hawaiian stink-eye from adjacent drivers.

He throws on the siren and can't even feel smug about it. Yes, he's done this a few times with no more of an excuse than he wants to get home early. At least, he gives the shaka sign, as cars slowly and begrudgingly move over.

The release of frustration must have done him a favour. He has an idea. "He's rented out a 4X4? It might not be to blend in and look like the tourist. It might also mean he's heading up to them high yonder mountains." And he peers through the windshield, to the vague direction of the Koolai Mountains.

"You want to extend the search area? Outside of the City? That's going to stretch resources." Chin sounds doubtful.

And yes, the Governor might be demanding something more concrete than a Danny Williams hunch to back up a search of what would basically be the whole damn island.

And in all the jungly stuff.

"I dunno," says Chin. "It's going to be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. And few forest trails are accessible by car anyhow. And we'll have to wait until dawn tomorrow."

Another reminder that another day has passed by.

"And there's another thing-" Must Chin forever be putting the dampeners on everything? "Our abductor might even have switched cars by now?"

"I know, I know," says Danny again. "But let's assume, let's just assume he didn't, huh? Let's give ourselves something of a fighting chance here? Let's assume, the guy thinks it's too much trouble to switch, or... hasn't the time, or... he really has his heart set on this particular jeep to make it into the Hawaiian Jungle or... because as a teenager he'd always dreamt of kidnapping a Seal Commander with one, or... he sees it as too much of a liability to switch cars – he runs a higher risk of getting caught, or being seen by witnesses. "

"Then," considers Chin, "he would switch license plates instead, to throw us off the scent."

They're both thinking out loud. Using each other as sounding boards. Simultaneously making two and two come to four – and then more some.

"Let's assume he's changed only the license plates," says Danny. "He knew that Tommy Lee would see the plate. He couldn't rely on Tommy Lee keeping quiet – even if bribed."

"Then our abductor would be ready. He'd have counterfeits made up. And probably more than one set."

"A local would have. Even a haole would have," says Danny. "And he couldn't have carried those from the mainland in a suitcase. Know anyone who could arrange that?" A leading question.

"No. But I know a man who does."

Kamekona.

-H5O-

Despite his threat, Pierson leaves Steve in the cage.

Practicality, Steve guesses. Night is falling fast.

Or... could he flatter himself that when it came to it, Pierson was reluctant to harm him? They'd been buddies. Once. They all had. The bond of being a Seal. But Pierson had already killed two fellow Seals, he wasn't about to stop with Steve. And Steve goes through eight names and faces, wondering who the other two victims were. Three he can even put homes and families to. He'd brought these guys through Ghosthawk for them to end up murdered? He could feel that anger now. Some.

Or... a night in the cage is all a part of the torture. No food. No water. Possibly no sleep - wire mesh digs hard against his skin, against his bruises and cuts. A mind left to think, to brood. To give Steve time to change his mind.

He's exhausted enough to sleep and not to think, however.

His training has taught him to grab sleep whenever, wherever you can. He's slept among desert rocks in Iran. He's slept in swamps in Ecuador. Always in danger. Always alert. An hour. Ten minutes. And he's rested enough to hit the trail. To be ready for action. He's trained to disregard the need for bodily comforts. To see his body as a tool, a weapon, to do the work demanded of it. To shut out the need for a good bed for the night, a hot meal, clean water to wash even... warmth... and Steve shivers with the chill of a Hawaiian night high in the mountains.

Sleep comes but it's fitful. His head and shoulder throb. He's disturbed by the noises of the forest that come out of the darkness. The movement of an animal close-by. The rustle of leaves that might signal Pierson's approach. And all the noises of the forest merge to become his dreams as well as his waking thoughts.

He wakes as dawn's breaking. Before Pierson. Except for bird-song, the clearing is quiet. A mist hugs and greys the green of the trees and leaves.

There's enough light and his vision is straight, to check his wounds – he's had sufficient rest to take the edge off the pain. Perhaps this had been Pierson's intention all along. No point beating a man if he's unconscious again in five minutes. Steve's been given time to heal.

His muscles are stiff and he stretches, without sitting-up, gingerly easing them. It's difficult in the confines of the cage. He's cautious about moving the chains in case he wakes Pierson. Wary about moving his shoulder. A sudden cramp in his calf has him furiously rubbing the area, curbing his yell of pain.

It settles. But there's a dull ache in the small of his back. Inside. Kidneys. He badly needs to re-hydrate. His tongue and throat are both sore. His tongue clamps to the roof of his mouth and no amount of swallowing will bring saliva to his mouth.

He can't recall the last time he urinated. But glances down and sees a stain, different to the blood and salt water on his shorts. Must have been when he was being beaten by Pierson.

Shame.

And he hates himself.

But he puts the emotion down the instant it's formed.

There's been a heavy dew. Water beads on the wire mesh of the cage, on the leaves beneath the cage. He's been taught to survive, to live off the land. Seal training. But his father played a part in that too. On their hikes across Oahu. He tries to remember which roots of which ferns or mosses he can eat. Tries to identify those that grow beneath the cage.

Remembers his father, stooping, taking out his pen-knife and cutting a stalk. The smile that breaks across the man's face as he offers Steve the plant to try. Steve pulls a face of disgust. His father laughs. But Steve's eaten worse things since.

Moss later, he decides. He doubts his stomach could cope with it. And he begins to lick at the steel wire, furtive, eyes constantly checking the tent for Pierson. His tongue is dry. His cut lip splits over again. The muscles of his throat won't work – but the coolness of the droplets reaches him somehow. If no amount gets inside him... at least it's soothing.

He systematically works along the mesh and leaves that poke through along the left hand-side. As far as he's able until his wrist chains tug and restrict him. He shifts slightly to take in another area immediately below his chin – and draws back suddenly – wire cuts his tongue – jeez – he didn't need that.

He tenses... squinting to focus... realizing... a loose wire. Two inches. But still connected, welded at one end. A manufacturer's fault. Two wires where there should be one.

Detail. Something he'd tried checking out before but failed... Should have done this again when he woke... self-pity...

_And a teenage boy cries alone at night missing his mother... _

Nothing is ever gained or achieved by self-pity.

The cage lock above his head. Notices now, there's not one but two close together. And eyes urgently track all around the cage – there are two sets of hinges. One to lift the top. Another to let down the side that faces him. Both locks are out of reach.

Thoughts somersault-

-He quickly examines his wrist manacles. Wouldn't take much to-

-A two inch piece of wire steel would make a pick-

-A slim chance-

-A two inch piece of wire steel would make a weapon-

-He'd aim for an eye-

-A chance-

His resolve quickens with this new purpose. He's not going to give Pierson that name.

He props himself up on his left elbow, frantically pulling, working to free the wire, constantly checking for Pierson. If he works at it long enough, it'll bend – and then snap. His hands tremble. He's clumsy. His fingers won't grip that well. His hands and arm muscles are more damaged than he realized. He's painfully reminded of his shoulder's injury. Rope burns have scorched his wrists. His eye smarts and waters so he practically can't see. He wipes the tears streaming from his cheek. Sees how soiled with blood and grime his hands are...

Nothing much gives and he lays back suddenly too tired to care.

This is his way to freedom. He's not going to give into his body's weakness. He can't give this up.

His only damn plan.

He's losing it.

Two minutes and he watches the yellow paleness in the blue blue sky.

A large bird has taken flight, circling the thermals. A hawk? Looking for prey.

Dawn. Hope. He should be prepping himself for whatever Pierson is going to throw at him today. The wire is going to take time. Time he might not have. His only real plan is to hold out, to force his body to survive somehow, to give Danny that time to find him.

A noise suddenly from the tent. Pierson is stirring and Steve hastily conceals the wire with leaves.

He watches his abductor emerge through the flaps. He watches his every move. Detail. Steve has to be ready...

Pierson's shrugging on his camou shirt over a vest. He's already booted. He scarcely glances Steve's way before disappearing into shrubs. Steve hears him do his business. He guesses Pierson has dug himself a latrine there. Pierson returns. Re-enters the tent. Exits. He has something in one hand. Steve can't make it out. Pierson picks up a cup. Puts down the object on top of one of the small water tanks so he can use both hands to fill the cup. Once full and the small tap is turned off, Pierson decides to push the object deep into the right-hand pocket of his pants – Steve feels irritated that he still can't identify it.

Pierson approaches the cage, cup in hand.

Again, he's limping slightly.

Steve can't help it. He flinches and shifts to the back of the cage as Pierson pulls out a bunch of keys from the right-hand pocket. He has to place the cup – small, plastic – on top of the cage to unlock the lower padlock. He's expecting it, but Steve's so tense, he starts as the front of the cage clatters to the forest-floor.

Pierson squats down and offers him the water.

"Just enough to live on," he says.

Factual. No emotion.

Steve takes the cup with both hands. He's like a condemned man. This is like his last meal.

The cup's not completely full. But this is probably all his stomach can take for now. His hands shake as he sips, trying not to aggravate his broken mouth or his bruised throat. He's dribbling, but he doesn't much care. He's trying his damn hardest not to show it but he's so grateful, so fucking grateful as he gulps the cooling liquid down.

While he drinks, Pierson's toying with his keys. Absent-minded. Thoughts elsewhere.

Plan. Plan. Steve could take him. At moments like this. When Pierson thinks Steve is at his mercy... But it's all it can ever be. A plan. His only hope is Danny and the team.

Pierson takes the cup from him.

"You had a change of heart?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Then, neither have I." And Steve nods in understanding. It's like they've agreed to terms and conditions of a deal. And Pierson has made it clear the consequences of a default.

"You try anything... well, I can tie you to the tree, conscious or not." He tosses over the key to the manacles. "Unlock them and get out. Do it slow. On your knees. Put your hands on your head."

And Pierson stands, backing off a step or two. Not trusting Steve. As if Steve as weak as he is, can take Pierson on.

Steve doesn't shift. He has nothing planned. Out of moves. He can't launch an attack. He guesses he's after defiance. If it'd help...

"Out of the cage," warns Pierson.

Steve stays where he is.

He doesn't want to crawl out and be beaten again. Why make it easy for Pierson? Does it matter whether he gets beaten in the cage or hanging from a tree?

"Ok, McGarrett. Makes no difference to me. But you're gonna learn to get out of the cage when I tell you."

Anger. Sudden anger. Pierson is on him in an instant.

So quick Steve doesn't even see it and the jolt sends him crashing to the side of the cage.

Nothing...

Then... dizziness.

Pain.

He moans. And in the bleariness, makes out the cattle-prod clutched in Pierson's hand.

And he's hauling Steve up, dragging him bodily across to the tree, throwing him to his knees again. The green of the forest swirls. The rope dangles in his face. His wrists are tied and hoisted up, held above his head – the pain screams through his shoulder - his vision greys. He fights it. And he's rewarded with nausea and the water of early swilling nasty in his mouth.

"No..." the whimper leaves him.

Pierson kicks at the inside of his thighs-

"No-"

- forcing his knees wide apart.

Something – heavy - a log? – drops to the ground, thrown by Pierson. Is shoved by a boot to jam between his knees. To hold him there.

"No? Then give me the name," snarls Pierson in his ear as he makes sure the rope's secure.

"You're not getting that name." Steve says it clear and proud like an oath. Like he'd defend it with his life.

-H5O-

Detail.

Waiting.

Watching Pierson.

Pierson prepares breakfast. Detail. Cereal from a plastic container. A small carton of UHT milk. Coffee is on the small camp-stove.

Pierson sits and eats and says nothing. It's like... preparing to... torture Steve is routine, all in a day's work.

Steve's muscles ache. He's been placed in a position designed to maximise that ache.

"A word of advice, Steve," Pierson had said on leaving him. "Don't sag too much. That shoulder of yours must be a killer."

It's textbook stuff. He knows the textbook. Pierson knows the textbook. Getting chosen to be in the Seals, they'd both passed SERE training with flying colours – including the part, what to expect on being captured by the enemy. They know the same textbook as they've been taught by the same man after all.

He remembers the detail of that. He remembers the detail of being forced to stand for... what, twenty, thirty hours? With the hood over his head and hands tied behind his back? He doesn't know the length of time – his instructors never did tell him that. All he knows is that he passed the test.

The hood was removed and he remembers the darkened room. He remembers the threat of the rifle. How he was compelled to strip naked and then stand with his hands on his head.

He remembers the voices that came out of the light yelling insults at him. About his manhood. About his weakness at getting caught. Voices that bark loud and made him blink.

No food. No water. No sleep. And then his hands were tied above his head. He remembers this now in the sunshine of an Hawaiian rainforest, how the rope snaked high through overhead steel girders... how he wondered what his instructors had in store for him next... he remembers how his whole body ached... it was all make-believe but his body still felt the sheer exhaustion of it all for real.

And from somewhere, a hosepipe had doused him with cold cold water. And he found himself suddenly released by forceful bullying hands, pinning him down, back to the floor. They'd put a rag over his face then. And yeah, he'd struggled, because for one awful moment, his body had insisted he was going to die, drown from the water-boarding even though his mind knew his "captors" would never do that to him.

Hell Week was bad too. The intense cold. The lack of sleep. The running. The long-distance swimming, he remembers.

And there came escape. Relief. Testing over. And they'd been a party after. Warm showers. Cold beers all round. When they'd been told they were finally in the Seals. Finally. Triumphantly.

And Matt Pierson had been right there with him...

They'd been trained to withstand torture... or at least how to be prepared... but it'd given them the know-how too.

Detail.

He's held in a text-book stress position. Arms high above his head. In pain from his shoulder. The rough ground and the log dig into skin.

The log also prevents him from shifting, prevents him from tackling Pierson with his legs or feet.

If he could.

It adds to his vulnerability.

And the blows to his ribs before Pierson leaves him, adds to that.

And really, man, if he knows this stuff – if he knows each of those reasons why Pierson is doing what he is doing, then really Steve shouldn't be feeling vulnerable. Not one bit. He should be prepared. That's what the training was all about. Being prepared.

But he's not. His back is painfully racked. And Pierson is right. His shoulder is a killer. He's grunting with every breath. And it's effort to track Pierson round the camp-site.

And training... he should be angry at Pierson and use that to fight Pierson. But... the situation with Pierson is totally different.

Because Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett caused pain to Pierson. And that's all he can think about. Now, he's allowed the thoughts in. The thoughts he'd driven away through the night. His part in causing pain to Pierson. And that thought seems to strip down Steve's barriers and he can't find the resolve to fight this. He certainly can't be angry at the man. No more than he can be angry at Graham Wilson on the Missouri – even when he remembers how close that man had been to shooting out his brains –in both cases, he just can't find that anger.

Pierson stands.

It begins.

The cattle-prod.

_A memory of a Columbian ranch._

The cattle prod to the softer parts of his belly.

Sharp.

Cutting.

The electric strike jerks back his head. Eyes clench tightly. He snarls, stifling the screams, keeping them contained in the back of the throat.

_Cow hides twitch with the cattle prods in the billowing clouds of dust as cowboys guide them to the corral. _

"The name, McGarrett."

"No," he grits out.

A second stab and he jars back on his restraints again.

_Cattle noises and hooves loud, drowning Team Two's approach. Drug trafficking to finance terrorism. _

Another jolt. A fourth. Fifth. To his arm-pits.

Another.

"The name, give me the name, McGarrett."

"No."

More. Quick succession. To his back. He attempts to curl away. Can't.

His moans guttural in his throat, each time, each time the electric burst flares through his muscles.

_Submachine gun fire. _

The prod hits him anywhere. Rapid. The pain of bullets.

"Ngnnnn," he murmurs.

He hangs limp. Past caring about his shoulder.

_The dust around the corral settles. The cattle cries, plaintive. Men lie dead. Bleeding. Dying._

Pierson allows him to recover... seconds... and he opens his eyes a crack and sees the blur of blue blue sky through the sweat and tears.

It's what his body does now.

Takes the blows.

His mind sees the blue blue sky and tells him he mustn't long for freedom. Escape. If you accept it isn't coming, then you won't be disappointed. Plan for escape, yes. Plan. Observe. But you're not going anywhere hanging from a tree. Accept. Accept. The moment now is pain and he must concentrate on absorbing that.

But the blue blue sky mocks him.

He's nearly senseless as Pierson cuts him loose and drags him back to the cage.

"Pierson... Matt... Stop this," he thinks he mumbles as the latches are locked down above his head. His fingers feebly try to wrench his shackles free.

"You giving me that name?"

He shakes his head. He's nearly forgotten about the name. He's just been taking the pain.

"Then you don't talk! You don't say anything! You hear?"

And Steve's aware enough to see the prod poking through the mesh – too weak, not quick enough, can't avoid – and the jolt sends him shuddering into blackness...

He comes round. Coughing. Wanting to puke but there's nothing.

A body that throbs all over.

Trembling.

Detail. His abdomen... aches. Chronic. Detail. He needs water again.

_The dust of the corral choking. His eyes sting with the dust. The dust settles. Dead men lie bleeding._

'We've lost Matt and Jonesy!' Another place. Another mission. Another rainforest.

"Pierson..." He needs to explain to Pierson why he's with-holding the name. But the words, the thoughts don't come. "Pierson..."

And Pierson is yelling at him. Angry.

And Steve can't comprehend why.

Pity? Regret? That Pierson won't accept?

"You talk out of turn and you get this, understand?" and Pierson, eyes bulging with rage, stabs the rod through the mesh again. Steve cowers away. It doesn't touch but Steve stays firm against the mesh of the cage.

"You have to be re-trained, McGarrett. Like a dog! That's how I was treated! Like a dog. You talk and you don't get to eat or drink. That name, McGarrett. That's all I want to hear."

Revenge. Not all about a name. Revenge. And Steve has to pay.

He slumps down in his corner watching, watching as best he can, blinking his vision clear, watching with slowing panting breaths as Pierson makes his way back to his tent. The mesh scrapes his wounds and cuts and bruises. He makes to curl up arms tucked into one another as best his shoulder will allow. Foetus. Comfort. Making himself small. Less of a target. Subconscious. He knows the psychology. Comfort. But nowhere is comfortable.

There's a saucepan on a camp stove. Pierson's going to eat and won't bother Steve. That's good. That's good. He doesn't have to watch. Watch. And guard his little space. The odour of the cooking hits his nostrils and makes his stomach turn. He turns his face away and closes his eyes.

The Team will find him. Pierson has left too many clues. The boat. The car. Steve just has to hold out. The Team will find him. Memories ripple through his mind like the shadows from the undergrowth. Kono. Chin. Danny. Laughing over a beer. They won't give him up for dead. And Pierson won't kill him yet. Not today at least. He just has to hold out. Till his Team finds him...

_...Gunfire panics the cattle herd. He's on the ground, rolling for protection, stumbling, confused in the dust of pounding hooves and animal bellowing. Bruised. Battered. Choking and blinded and deafened. A stray bullet and he takes damage to his thigh. And the strength of the hand of Luke Pierson grabs for him and hauls him to safety. And Luke shoulders him to shelter away from the drug war. His fellow Seal ties off the bleeding bullet wound. Steve winces, gritting his teeth, looking skyward where a lone bird circles high above in the blue blue. _

'_First mission, McGarrett and you get yourself caught in cross-fire? Whas Joe White gonna say?'_

_Steve looks back and grins at Luke. Luke's a good guy. 'Must have missed that lesson.'_

Joe White stands in the front of the blue blue class-room.

'_Remember boys, the reason for the simulation is two-fold. The assessors will need to see what you're capable of – or not. But it's for your benefit too. Whatever you experience on the test, you can expect to receive, tenfold, if you get caught. And they'll be more innovative. My advice would be – don't get caught.'_

_Light laughter as the class ends and they trail out. Steve must have looked tense. Joe pats him on the back._

'_Don't worry. You'll sail through this. I'm expecting great things of you, son.'_

Steve starts.

Pierson is there, beside the cage and Steve is meant to be watching. Guarding.

Be prepared. His head is at Matt's thigh level. Matt's hands are searching for the key to the manacles. Steve could take him now... but he sees the cattle prod protruding from Matt's hip pocket... but he knows Matt will be ready... but he hasn't the strength... but he'd been sleeping when he should have been watching... planning... getting his breaths ready... feeding his strength.

The latches to the cage are loosened. The key unlocks the manacles.

It begins again and the heaviness in Steve's stomach tells him he's just not ready...

"Out of the cage," orders Matt, standing with legs apart, passing the cattle-prod from one palm to the other. Maybe... maybe... he's toying with Steve. Letting him have that chance to escape knowing he will take him down as soon as he tries. Maybe...

"No," he says again, defiant again. Though he can't take his eyes off the cattle-prod.

"Still haven't trained you well-enough."

He loses count.

No escape.

Each jolt and he hits the metal mesh.

He loses count of the number of times Pierson stabs him with the prod. He's panting fast with the slicing pain. Sick. Vision greying, he's in no state to resist Pierson roughly seizing his ankles and wrists and re-locking the manacles.

Pierson seems to drift away. A grey figure lost in the mist of the grey-green of forest leaves. Unable to pin-point him. Sounds of the forest dip and recede as he fights consciousness.

Give in. Give in to sleep.

But he needs to know, needs to know what Pierson's doing.

Why?

Give in and tell him the name.

Why?

No. Protect Pierson. Buy time. Danny will find him. And stop Pierson from this spiral downwards as a killer. He'd been a good man once. Before Steve McGarrett had made a mistake.

Time passes. He pulls himself up to almost sitting... Burns... His tattoos, his thighs, his torso – all littered with the same livid red marks.

His head, his body aches with the pain.

And he's so goddamned thirsty.

His brain goes over the same ground again and again in dizzying circles. Give in. It hurts. Fight it. Give in. What does it matter, if after four years he tells Pierson the name? He'll be dead that's why. This way, he buys time. Give it. It hurts. Can fight it. Give in. It hurts. Thirsty. So thirsty. Can fight it. Strength. I have that strength. Give in. Then he finds the deep breaths to drive the doubt in himself away.

He starts at the sound of flapping through overhead branches. His eyes follow the brown of a bird making its escape through the green to the blue blue of the sky.

Detail. He knows the flight pattern. A hawk. But he quickly turns to the forest undergrowth. Detail. Birds frightened by the approach of humans. The bird frightened by the approach of Pierson's boots, crunching the dying undergrowth.

The slop of water in a camping canister. Detail. White plastic. It's full. Pierson has filled it from the stream that runs close by.

Steve pictures it. Crystal clear water overhung with fronds of green. White froth foaming over rocks. Cool in the humidity of the jungle.

Thirst.

His tongue feels welded to the roof of his mouth. He can't swallow.

Pierson is behind him and Steve tries to turn but can't see – senses the weight of the canister placed by the cage to his left.

The rogue Seal's hands unlatch both the front and the top of the cage, letting both fall open.

Not the usual routine.

Steve gets wary – he just can't see what Pierson is up to -

- sudden hot blackness as a hood is slipped over his head.

Suffocating in an instant.

Tightness at his throat as ties are pulled sharply at his neck, pressing the sweltering heat of the fabric close to his face.

Black.

Black.

Breathe through his nostrils is hot and steamy. And the instinct to survive kicks in and he's struggling futilely at his manacles to wrench it free.

Hands pull at the top of the hood, jerking his head back close to the mesh – and... he can't move his head at all. The top of the hood must be secured to the wire of the cage, leaving him facing upwards to the blackness where the blue blue of the sky should be. Pain slices through his shoulder, his rigid neck, holding his skull in a vice grip.

Nothing.

Nothing but suffocating black.

Muffled noises of Pierson moving.

His own quickened breaths trapped in the cloth. Panic as he realises – water – cloth -

The simulation - they held him down - the weight of the wet towel over his face as they poured over the water-

With no exertion, a Seal can hold their breath for four minutes underwater.

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake to panic. But he can't pull in those deep breaths to oxygenate his blood with the angle, the tension in his throat and chest.

Black. Awful black.

Panic. Mistake. Mistake. Panic restricts breathing when he needs to haul in deep breath. Got to get a reservoir of air.

Get a hold. Get a hold. Quick.

"You wanted something to drink?" taunts Pierson.

Shock. Sudden cold cold water pours over his body, his face. Robbing him of what little breath he'd saved. He's gasping before the hood is soaked completely, clamping its fabric to his face.

No air.

No air.

And he's struggling like a maniac to pull at the cloth. Ripping at the skin on his restraints. Got to twist his head free. Got to...

No air.

No air.

Don't panic. Pierson won't... won't kill you.

Joe White. _They'll take you to the point of drowning but they won't kill you. It doesn't kill you. It scares you fucking crazy, that's all. You just think you're gonna die. Don't believe it. You have to tell yourself not to believe it._

It stops. The water stops but the hood hugs his nose still and his lungs work hard to suck in quick quick breaths to feed oxygen back to his brain. He sees red in the blackness.

Ringing in his ears. Pierson speaks to him - he nearly doesn't hear -

"Since you can't talk just yet, if you want to tell me that name, if you want me to stop so you can talk, then make a fist. Understand?"

He thinks he even nods.

Somehow.

He's rigid with tension as the water begins again.

Should be... should be prepared.

Weak. Weak from being beaten. Can never be ready...

Water. Water from above that presses the fabric tight to his nostrils. That keeps on coming. He tries to hold his breath again. But Pierson kicks him. Kicks him every time he inhales to ensure he doesn't hold the breath.

And when he inhales, the water comes down.

Mustn't breathe in. Mustn't breathe in. The water keeps on pouring down. Invading his nose. Please... Panic. Panic. He's going to drown. He's going to drown – no – no - _it doesn't kill you_ – fatigue - thoughts not straight - Pierson won't kill him -he needs that name – need - frantic need to survive - he's thrashing and bucking against the cage again - shoulder pain - nothing - nothing to this - the cloth suffocating him - out of air – coughs – chokes – gags - sucks water in – chokes – lungs – ache – explode -

A last, final jerk.

A different blackness.

-H5O-


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Again thx for all the reviews, alerts and favs – even reading! You're all tremendous with the support.

A shorter chapter for you. Oh, and there's a lot of cursing...

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Five<span>

The flight or fight reflex cuts in. And the guy decides on flight at the sight of the two detectives and it's just damn inconsiderate of him in this heat. Danny's shedding his tie as he sprints after Chin. Two blocks later and Chin has one David O'Hara in an arm-hold, face grazing against a rough cinder back-yard wall, yelling at him to quit struggling.

Yes. Definitely. Inconsiderate, thinks Danny, bending over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Since when did bad guys start putting the hours in at gyms and getting this fit?

"I haven't done nothing!" squawks the guy.

"Ah, a double negative," gasps out Danny, standing now, leaning against the wall on one shoulder, looking directly into the perv's squidged-up face. "A sure sign of guilt, if ever there was one, don't you think, Detective Kelly?"

"He's hurting me! I haven't done nothing!" insists O'Hara again.

"And did we say you had?" says Chin.

"And running. Sure sign of guilt, number two, David. We would have been quite happy to just sit and talk. But no, you had to decide to try out those $200 trainers of yours."

The man struggles even more.

"I should keep still if I were you. You wouldn't want to scuff them, would you?"

And Danny grinds the ball of his foot hard on O'Hara's toes.

He doesn't react all that well.

"Beats me how you can afford them, being unemployed and all. Not into counterfeit plates by any chance?" asks Chin, breathing into the back of O'Hara's neck.

"Who told you-" And the guy shuts up suddenly.

Would he know it's Kamekona who's provided a list of likely suspects and O'Hara's name came out top?

"Not telling you nothing!" he grunts. Chin shoves O'Hara's face tighter into the wall. And O'Hara's not kidding. It has to hurt. Danny leans in closer and speaks gently. Sympathetic.

"I think you should, you know, tell us all you know. It wouldn't take too much to find the evidence. Just a stroll to your quaint shacky thing – the one emanating odour of spray paint through its portal? Now here's a thing," and Danny shifts to hold up his badge – they'd better stick to some form of HPD regulation- "we're Hawaii-5-O."

And the fear in the man's eyes is nearly feral.

"And we have full means and immunity. Do you need me to explain that? Course you do. It means we could beat you to a pulp and no one would care that much. But. We, being such nice guys – or perhaps this heat has warped our judgement – can extend to lucky _you,"_ and he stands back, using both hands to indicate a narrow corridor, "for a limited time span only, say, the next five minutes, the same umbrella of that immunity in the eyes of the law."

"Wha? Huh?"

"In other words, we'll turn a blind eye, if you answer our questions!" and Chin gives his twisted arm another quick jerk to make sure he understands. "Just tell us, have you in the last week produced plates for a red Wrangler Jeep?"

The man seems to hesitate and Danny glances up to the white sun glaring down on their concrete surroundings – he could very nearly wish to be in the shade of a pineapple grove - it's just too hot for any of this.

"Come on, O'Hara! Your time's up! It's easy enough to answer. We're not on the multi-million dollar question yet."

"Yeah, Yeah. I have."

"You were hired to make up the one set. Or were there others?" asks Chin.

"Others. Yeah. "

"You're going to give us the numbers?"

O'Hara quickly gabbles out four.

"Lucky you remember."

"I was always good like that. Photographic memory."

"No kidding. Well, that's good. That's good.

And Danny is dialling up Jenna with the info. Asking her to get traffic surveillance cameras to be on the look-out.

"You have the original set? Haven't destroyed them?" They might get lucky with some prints.

"He took them with him."

Danny hears Chin's 'damn'.

"So he brought the vehicle to your lock-up? Didn't arrange to meet you somewhere?"

"Disused ground. Barber's Point."

Definitely no hope of prints then.

"Ok, we're nearly done here. The name of the driver? The one who paid you well enough to buy the Hugo Boss latest." It'd be false, but let O'Hara believe he was fully co-operating.

"Peter Benson. He said his name was Peter Benson."

Which is a name neither Chin nor Danny recognize.

"And a description?"

"Tall. Slim. Dark-haired. Wore Camou's. A haole. And..."

"Yeah?"

"He walked with a limp."

"A limp?" Danny's surprised. A limp could narrow things down. But their abductor had been described as being athletic? "Ok, we're going to take up more of your time, good kind sir. We need to come with us-" O'Hara could hardly object - "and do us a full ID. Play with pretty pictures. It'll be fun."

"I'm not under arrest?"

"Oh no, no," assures Danny as Chin pushes O'Hara back to his lock-up and their waiting car. "You haven't done nothing, remember?"

An hour later and they have the photo-fit. Though it's so vague, so ordinary it could be anyone. Nothing definite to match anything they have on file. No Navy Seal. No one who Hawaii-5-O have locked away in the past six months who might be holding a grudge. A lot come close. But no one is... _definite._

And there's no match to any Peter Benson either.

Jenna has been working on the surveillance pictures that have come in from the car hire company. She apologizes that they're not so hot - grainy and poor quality. Not her fault. She's found one guy who walks with a limp. But he wore a hoody. His face is obscured.

Why are surveillance cameras always located at ceiling level? Wonders Danny. If he hadn't worn a hoody, if they had the detail, all they'd be getting was a bald patch or the guy's dandruff's count.

The photo-still of Hoody Guy sits on Screen One in the bull-pen, mocking them.

"This Peter Benson's credit card was bona fide – actual funds in the account though he's closed it now. We won't be able to track him using financials," she again apologises, eyes down to the table. She knows how much these dead-ends are hurting them.

"I've called Fraud," updates Chin. While Danny was with O'Hara. "Asked them to help find out who might be supplying our guy with false ID's. Our abductor, though he has the profile of a loner, has to have some links to some big-time crooks - it's not easy to get past banking systems these days. They're working on six major cases at the moment. Nothing concrete they can tell us. In fact..." he pulls a face, "they've asked us to let them know when we catch this guy. They'd be interested to know what he has to say."

Danny walks away from the computer table. Rubbing out the migraine that threatens.

A fragment of a view between his fingers... he raises his head... There, in front of him... Steve's office... empty.

He turns when Jenna speaks again.

"I could call up Hawaii International," she offers. She doesn't look confident. None of them do. "Take at look at their in-coming passengers. There can't be that many with limps?" She looks anxiously from Kono to Chin to Danny, eyes big and concerned. She's trying to be encouraging here and it's wonderfully commendable but - it's not working.

Again. Not her fault.

Chin shakes his head morosely. "It'll take you a month. He might even be a local and hiring the boat and the car is simply to throw us off the scent."

"At least, we've started the full search for those four plates," says Kono, also trying to instil some optimism.

And there's a full chopper search of the Oahu rainforest. Two of HPD's very own. And one of those big Navy brutes loaned by Grifferson. He said it'd be good for training...

There really isn't a lot more the Team can do, except wait – and oh, let O'Hara go.

O'Hara hesitates at the cell door, not too certain he's actually being released.

"Go. Go. Off!" and Danny is dusting down the man's shirt in mock-concern. "I'm sure you've got important business to attend to."

They allow him three minutes before Chin's on his phone. "Traffic? You can pick up one David O'Hara, for plate counterfeiting. He's now leaving Hawaii-5-O HQ. He's already on file." He shuts down his phone.

"Breaking promises, Chin?" asks Danny.

"We can't have him helping the bad guys," he says firmly.

They had to have something positive happening out of all this.

Danny slaps him on the back. "Nothing I wouldn't do."

-H5O-

The sun is white and blinding. High above tree tops. The cage, central to the clearing, offers no shade in the heat. Pierson has designed it that way.

Steve closes his eyes and doses, though sleep never leaves him feeling rested.

Head back. Sitting. Reduces the press of wire mesh against his skin... his wounds. He attempts to shut down all physical sensation. The throbbing ache from his body. Pierson has used the prod again... used his fists again...

'_You see, McGarrett, I know exactly where to hit you, where I won't do you permanent damage but will maximize the pain. I know exactly how your nervous system is rigged out.' _

'_No self-pity,'_ says the voice of Joe White.

The heat.

His thirst.

The heat.

And rivulets of perspiration trail down his face and chest and back, soaking his shorts. He longs to wash, to bathe. The odour of his own body... overpowering in this heat.

'_No self-pity,'_ says the voice of Joe White.

But he longs to wash. Hates the itch from his beard.

Pierson has used the water a second time, too. But he longs to feel clean again...

He doses...

...Full kit on display on his bed. Inspection. Two dozen rookies. Eyes to front. Hands behind back. Matt has the bed opposite. And he winks. Pulls funny faces to imitate Joe. Just as Joe reaches Steve's bed. And Steve struggles to contain his smirk. Joe raises an eyebrow. And Steve gets it under control. Barely...

"You need to eat."

Words that stir him. He wakes and groans and murmurs incomprehension. He coughs against the mucus in his nose, his lungs. Water-boarding did that to him. And he coughs again, coughs that are racking and painful, that open up the scab on his lower lip. The taste of salt and metal. He wipes a hand across his mouth, examines it but can barely make out the blood there - his left-eye is partially closed and weeping after his sleep.

"Food. Drink. You need to eat, "comes the prompt again.

And Pierson comes slowly into focus.

If he wants to continue to resist Pierson, he'll need the food and drink.

Now. He's weak. Now. He's de-hydrated.

'_Assess and make a decision based on that assessment.'_

The front of the cage has been opened. Clear space lies in front and not a world crisscrossed by metal. He almost feels... free.

He's aware of the knees of Pierson's camou pants close to his face. A plastic bowl is offered, filled with something pale brown and with a hint of meaty aroma that sends a wave of nausea straight to his stomach. And the forest floor threatens a spin.

"I can't have you starve," insists Pierson.

"Water," he agrees to. He just doesn't want to be sick. Being sick would hurt. For the same reason, he tries not to move, though he dearly wants to push the food to one side.

"The food too," urges Pierson. "Soup. With some rice. Some mashed chicken. Easy to digest. Protein."

"What? You gonna force feed me?" Spitting aside the blood. Somehow some anger flutters there and his voice comes rough and aggressive.

"Don't tempt me. I'm not going to have you die on me."

But a white plastic cup comes into Steve's field of vision.

- And Pierson's gun close to his temple.

"You try any tricks, and yeah, I will use this."

The gun's nuzzle presses closer.

Steve takes the water with shaking hands, pulling at his chains.

This is the detail he sees as he slurps thirstily, eager and greedy. He misses his mouth and the liquid dribbles down his chin, his beard. His throat is too tight and sore to cope with the simple act of swallowing and the water snags there. He's gasping. Coughing again. He's taken it far too fast – he should know better –

"Easy! Easy!" says Pierson, grabbing at his wrist and pulling the cup away.

Steve is twisted, coughing up spittle on to the floor of the forest, coughing that's tears at his abused stomach muscles, sending hot stabs across his eyes and head, but he resents the water being taken away from him. He fights for the cup again, but his lungs still contract painfully. His efforts are feeble against the strong arm that holds the cup. He does no more than raise a hand. But he needs this. He needs litres of water. And he groans his complaint.

"Take it slow, huh?" and once he's still, the cup is topped up and offered back to him.

He takes it a sip at a time. Letting the water take its time to soothe his throat.

The gun is back to his head as he drinks.

He could make a grab for it. He could make out another coughing fit. Take Pierson off-guard. But Pierson would be more than ready. Would he kill him?

He finishes and Pierson surprises him – and he flinches back – Pierson's hand reaches for his chin, lifts it and examines the cut on his lip.

"That should have had a stitch or two." And then he seems to forget, topping up Steve's cup again.

"You... trying for the 'good guy, bad guy' routine?" he croaks. "Or you want to get me strong enough so you can beat the crap out of me again?"

But... detail. Profiler courses. Psychology. These change of moods. Instability... dangerous.

"Something like that," and Pierson half-smiles.

"Which?"

Pierson doesn't reply. "Better make this the last cup. Take it steady... You know, they did this to me too. Eventually decided they needed to feed me. But makes you feel like a mongrel dog though, don't it? Puked up everything for the first day. It was hot. This is a heat-wave but it's nothing to how hot it was there. You could get real thirsty just sitting around... waiting for the next time they came to get you... always thirsty... always."

"I'm sorry," Steve says again as he hands back the cup. "I'm sorry for all that happened to you." And he's sincere. "But this isn't the way, man. This just isn't the way to get the answers you want."

Pierson accepts the cup.

"I know you're sorry, McGarrett. But you have only to tell me that name and we can both be out of here."

"They'll find you. They'll be on your case so heavy-"

"-Yeah, I know they're looking for me – for you – must be good to have friends who care – but for how long? How long do you think they'll keep on looking? Think any of them are as obsessive as me? Think any of them could be driven by this one thing for years and years? Coz we could be here that long. They trained us well, didn't they? How to survive?" Pierson slaps the cage.

"I'll take good care of you, Stevie, boy. I'll take good care of you. You see. I never let anyone down. I do what I promise. And I won't let you die."

And he's offering back the bowl of food.

-H5O-

Mary's living in Steve's house.

"I can't imagine that I'm a threat to whoever now... now..." and the last part of the sentence sticks in her throat.

She drifts into HQ each morning, wraith-like and pale. She's not sleeping. She's trawling the bars by night, filling stations by day – 'this guy has to fill up that Jeep sometime', she says, even though they've told her, it's HPD's job. She waves around a photo of Steve. She's drives Steve's truck and, with an armful of local maps, she's searching the little roads and farm trails.

"I'm becoming quite the P.I," she yawns over the coffee Danny has brought her.

He admires her.

"I might yet join you," he's saying, when his cell goes, and hey ho, he's going up in the world – a call from Governor Jameson's office requesting a meeting at his earliest convenience, and he guesses that's governor-speak for 'get your fucking ass in here, pronto.'

She wants a progress report on the arms deal. The one they were working on, when Steve was taken. The one they're now supposed to be working on, in between looking for Steve. He gives it. He's already given it by email. She's beating round the bush.

She taps a pen repeatedly on her desk. Looking at that, rather than meeting Danny's eye.

He's wondering what he always wonders when he meets this lady. How come she keeps her suits so crisp with that just-pressed look?

"I'm getting the impression this case isn't getting your undivided attention. I can understand that. With the... Commander McGarrett... situation unresolved..." She's failing on all counts to be tactful. "But this arms deal should have higher priority." She shakes her head. "Too much manpower is being expended on-"

"Come again?" Danny can hardly believe he's hearing this and Governor Jameson realises that she may possibly, just possibly have overstepped the mark and softens a little.

"I know how close you all are and I realise we are missing one of the most dedicated of police officers but I'm sure even he would appreciate that more lives are going to be saved going after this arms cartel?"

"We're making headway," he says stiffly. "We have one of their men in custody."

You would think that Jameson wouldn't care that much about this arms cartel, they were investigating. Rivals of Wo Fat's. You'd think she'd be happy they simply fought it out and all killed one another. Why round up these guys and hand Wo Fat a monopoly on a plate?

Jameson pokes at the pile of papers on her desks as if it's something she trod in.

"One. This Tonio Topeca?" These guys must make their names up? Who would have named that by loving parents? "For possession of _one_ AKA rifle?"

"We've only been fully on the case again for half a day," he confesses.

"Like I said, Detective Williams, I'm questioning your priorities here? Whereas I applaud your loyalty to Commander McGarrett, it is my opinion that you're pulling far too many HPD man hours for the search of the Lt Commander." She glances at another pile of papers on her desk. "My police budget... and you have instigated this far – the catalogue gets longer – a full search of car hire databases, every HPD officer is searching for... some guy in a... far from clear picture... and now we have chopper sweeps of the forests and National Park areas? Without any concrete evidence pointing to the Commander actually being there. Do you know how much it costs per hour to keep one of those in the air?"

Danny finds himself fuming. But there's that old adage that if you haven't nothing nice to say, then don't say it. He coughs into a fist to tamp down his anger.

"You granted us full means, ma'am."

" McGarrett might not still be alive," she murmurs back, picking up and shuffling papers straight.

"He might not be dead either," he says through gritted teeth. "If the abductor had wanted him dead, he'd just have taken a pop at Steve whilst in the water-"

His phone chimes and Danny finds himself apologising as he fumbles with a pocket of his pants to switch it off.

"It's ok, Detective, we're finished here."

Danny stands. He's still clumsy with his phone, blinded with fury. Or lack of sleep. Or both.

"Steve McGarrett has made sacrifices for this country and I goddamned will not rest until he is found for that reason alone," he says.

And yeah, it's clichéd.

"I'm owed leave. Two months, in fact. I'll look for him myself." He pushes back his chair and stands.

Jameson raises an eyebrow and Danny finally has the presence of mind to press the right buttons and take the call from Chin.

Chin sounds breathless. The call is urgent.

"I'm sending a vid we've just received. You might want to show it to the Governor."

He stares dumbly at the small screen that flicks up.

Steve.

And his heart goes tense and warm at the sight of his buddy like this.

Steve tied up. Chest bare. Hands tied above his head.

Beaten up.

But.

_Alive._

Only just.

And Danny's shocked. Because, at this stage, they hadn't been expecting anything like ransom calls.

"He's alive. Proof," he announces, holding out the phone across the desk for Jameson to see.

And the voice of the abductor is screeching: "Lay off looking for McGarrett! He has a choice! He can walk free. Whenever he wants! He just has to tell me what I want to know! Lay off or I kill him! No more choppers, or I kill him!"

And Danny looks at the screen again.

Steve struggles on his wrist ties.

A hand, a knife appears in the bottom left corner. The picture goes hazy and crooked.

Two quick cuts are made to Steve's stomach.

And Danny can't believe he's seeing this.

And Steve's looks like he can't believe it either. He says something. Incoherent. Then... passes out. At least, Danny hopes he's passing out and not...

The call suddenly cuts dead.

"He's alive," repeats Governor Jameson. She's surprised. And Danny fights back the urge to tell her she should have more faith in Steve's ability to stay that way – but he's thought it himself so many times – that Steve is dead. He's even allowing that thought in, right now.

"At least, when the vid was taken," Danny's forced to concede that. "Yeah, he's alive and I intend to see he stays that way. And you're wrong. This case," and he still hates calling Steve '_a case'_, "should still be top priority. If he kills Steve, he's just going to turn around and do this again – to other guys who have served his country. Who knows what he'll do next? He's a man with a screw loose and he needs to be found."

He can justify this with logic. But the plain fact is, he really wants his friend back in one piece.

He keeps the cell on speaker.

"Chin, did you manage to locate the call?"

"Tracking placed it to the back of some industrial units at ABD Shipping in the Dockland area of Honolulu. Clearly he didn't make the vid there. Went there to make the call. Local HPD have just reported in - they found the cell dumped in a trash can. No witnesses. No ICT cameras. The call was made using a pre-paid cell-phone. He's probably bought replacement already. Or he has a half dozen with him."

"The vid was made out of the city?" asks Danny. Then his hunch was right. In the background. After his brain had registered Steve's injuries – the greenery. The forest. Camouflage and rope ties of a tent. "We have to keep those choppers up. And we need men asking questions at camping equipment, army stores. Like the plates, he couldn't have flown in with all this stuff." He raises a questioning eye at the Governor who nods, defeated.

"But no more helicopter searches? The man said he'd kill him?" she asks.

Danny doesn't know what to think. He has to agree with her and shakes his head. He doesn't want to call off the air search. It's gotten them where they are now. That much closer to finding Steve.

"And we need flight manifestos of all the choppers out searching. See what areas they've covered already."

"Sure thing, Danny. But the air search, so far. Are we calling it off?" asks Chin.

Danny looks to the Governor.

"It's your call," she says.

He can't take the risk.

"No more choppers," he decides. Though it feels like he's giving in to the abductor all the same.

"I wonder what it is that he needs to know?" asks the Governor as he leaves, still talking to Chin.

She's like an echo to his own question.

"Get out the GhostHawk Mission reports again. I'll be there in fifteen. There has to be something we're missing. "

"Will do. Two men dead already. I agree the link has to be there."

"And... can you make out what Steve says at the end of the call?"

"We'll do what we can. But Danny?"

"Yeah."

"The vid isn't proof of life, you know. We have no idea when it was made."

"Can me stubborn, but I think it is." He knows he's pushing away those unwanted images of Steve beaten up – then, yes, he's stubborn.

And now it floods in. As he sprints down the grand staircase, dodging wide-eyed pen pushers and bureaucrats. Now. Now minutes have passed, the sheer gratitude washes over him, that at least, there's a chance that Steve is still alive.

'Please, god of all the angels, Pele, _someone_, keep him whole till we get there, huh?'

-H50-

He's losing some of that detail. Nights spent in the cage, such as they are, are his refuge. But the day-light... Minutes fuse into hours. The prod. Or he's beaten. All are bound into one unit whole. By Pierson's anger. By his own pain.

They cover the same ground. Over and over.

"Who you trying to protect, McGarrett? Who on that mission was worth all this? You're crazy! You're crazy, to take all this!"

He sees Pierson's confidence that he will soon break start to crack. He sees Pierson's rage as Pierson's doubt.

But Steve can't ever feel triumphant. He can't ever feel he's won.

"I told you..." he pants out, "you... won't get that name. I'm sorry... for what... happened... to you. But you won't... get that name... Not like this... Turn yourself in... and you'll get that name."

"Playing for time? You still think your guys will find you?"

And the game swings and it's Pierson who thinks he's won. And he grins and punches Steve hard to the stomach, leaving him hanging there from his tree, fighting for breath against the pain that ratchets up his ribs, up his arms... his shoulder, the epicentre of it all.

"Not... all to do... with a name... is it... Pierson?"

Revenge. This anger is revenge. Pure and simple.

"I gave up years of my life for my country! For why! They turned their backs on me. Pretended I didn't exist!"

""You knew... the risks..." he has to find the words. The words, the facts drive out the pain. Drive out thoughts... emotion... _self-pity._ "It was... explained. If anyone... was captured, you would be... denied." There has to be another angle, another way to reason with him.

"You left me!"

And more kicks and punches follow. Punctuating each of Pierson's words and sentences. He lets the guy rant on. And he takes it.

"I kept quiet you know. Didn't say where the pick-up point was. Didn't say who sent me. Didn't say how many of us there were. I stuck to that story that we were rival mercenaries out to wipe out the opposition. I saved your fucking hides. I helped you guys get out of there. I must have been fucking insane! Left behind because of a fucking mistake that no one checked my pulse! I only had a scratch! Here!" and Steve's vaguely aware he points to his temple. "A thigh wound that left me with the limp. Made that sacrifice for what?

"I'm sorry..."

"Honour! Honour! You guys just wanted to save your own fucking skin?"

"Not so, man... not true... Believe me... am sorry."

No more blows come.

In too much pain to care.

In and out of semi-consciousness.

He remembers the radio message:

'_We've lost Matt and Jonesy.'_

He remembers the faces looking for him to command. Dependent on him. He remembers the decision not to go back for bodies. They carried no dog-tags. They carried no personal effects that could identify them. Bodies weren't a threat to national security. If any were captured, they might be. He had to think in those terms. Team Hawk had to provide covering fire for Team Eagle. And they had to get out quick.

He remembers the grave of Commander Jordan. Leaves and branches.

He remembers the dull thud thud of a chopper.

China... or here? The noise is filling up the forest.

Here.

To the west.

Detail. Heavy duty. Twin turbo-shaft. He hasn't imagined it.

A search.

And he feels... the heart-beat of hope...

Pierson is screaming. Yelling. Words lost in the din of the chopper blades that begin to bend and buffet trees and bushes.

He comes at him with the hunter's knife.

No. No. No.

Pierson is yelling, screaming. Cursing.

"Fucking Seals! Fucking Seals! Fucking damn fucking Seals!"

And he's being cut down. Fast. Fast with panic. And Pierson's arms are wrapping round him. And dragging him over to the clearing edge. Into undergrowth.

"Fucking Seals!"

Confusion. The whirr of thick green black leaves and shadows. The thrashing and scratching of branches as Pierson's hauls him to cover. Pierson's "Fucking Seals!"

Not yet overhead – a glimpse - the bulk and grey shadow of the HH-60H. Navy. Hovering, veering, searching. The Infra-red nose pod.

Wind, downdraught – difficult to breathe. Leaves scatter.

And Pierson throws them both down, hauling a black blanket over their heads, digging them into the carpet of dead leaves.

Hiding in the cooling darkness.

The peace and coolness of a second.

The smell of earth in his nostrils.

Pierson's panting, breathing through clenched teeth, almost weeping, close to his ear. "Fucking Seals! Fucking Seals! Fucking Seals!"

The thud thud overhead.

Resolve.

The thud thud overhead.

Strength.

He twists and pushes away from Pierson using his still-bound hands and elbows for leverage. He slips out of Pierson's tight grasp. He belly crawls. He snakes forward - weak knees won't let him stand - thrusting his way through the under canopy. Hoping... hoping the chopper will detect his heat... will see him as a human form.

He makes it a whole six feet before Pierson catches hold of his ankles. Jerks him bodily back. Forest debris hits his face, his chest.

And Pierson is scrambling on all fours over him. Laying on top him. Pressing him hard to the ground. Wrapping his legs around Steve's. Gripping at Steve's hair with one hand, yanking his head back and clamping the fingers of the other tight over Steve's mouth as if - he could yell for help.

He's pinned there.

Can't move.

And all he can hear is Pierson's "fucking Seals!" over and over.

And all he can hear is the receding thud thud of the Rescue Hawk.

And all he can feel... no... no... His disappointment hurts as much as anything Pierson throws at him.

And he can feel Pierson's red fury as he heave's Steve up, crashing them back through the undergrowth, his feet scrambling for some sort of hold, as branches rip at his already damaged skin.

"Pierson... Matt! Matt!" he pants out.

"Fucking Seals! Fucking Seals! I'll teach them! Teach them. Teach them."

And he re-joins the rope at Steve's wrists, his eyes inches from Steve's but blind to reason.

"Matt..."

"Fucking Seals! Fucking Seals." And Pierson goes to his tent, leaving Steve hanging. The same same agony as before. "Fucking Seals."

And the man is crying and wiping the tears from his eyes. Swiping his nose with the back of his hand. Sniffling.

He returns with a phone. The hunter's knife in the other hand.

"I'll teach them. I'll teach them."

"Matt... no..."

This is it.

Here.

Here. Now.

"Fucking, fucking Seals!" Pierson sobs.

And holding the phone to take a vid, Pierson lunges forward with the knife. Steve struggles... can't... can't twist away.

Two quick cuts to Steve's stomach.

And with all his tension... he feels it sooner than he should... he glances down and can see the red... the criss-cross laceration.

His half-cry hitches in his throat. "Matt... don't..."

And his head lolls forward...

-H5O-


	6. Chapter 6

A/N Thx again everyone for reviews etc etc – but you don't want to hear me gush ;-)... But I will say this, all quibbles too, are gratefully received! They mean I can (within reason ) improve your story for you. Qweb has already pointed out that Danny, in Chap One, had time to fetch Steve's father's rifle from the house. So now we have an insert there. Sym64 queried a detail about Operation Ghosthawk and I hope I've made that clearer in Chapter Six.

In Chapter Six, we find Danny is in a reflective mood and Steve is...

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Six<span>

It's an anniversary.

Happy anniversary, Danny.

It's exactly a week since Steve was taken from the sea.

Steve's now out of the Hawaiian headlines. Unemployment has jacked up. A man's slaughtered his family in Waipahu. A fire at industrial plant on Sand Island has led to a power outage. Steve get's a footnote or a paragraph at the very end. If there's time or space.

Catherine has come to the end of her extended leave – extended on compassionate grounds and has returned to duty. There were tears as she hugged Mary, who had come along with Danny to drop her off at the gates to Hickam Base – a chopper was going to fly her out to an aircraft carrier, goodness knows where.

The two had become close.

"They should let you stay indefinitely," Mary had complained.

"I'm only a friend."

"A friend in shock."

"I'll cope. Thanks, Danny," and she'd patted him on the arm, her eyes still moist, never able to meet his look. "You've all been great. You'll let me know if... anything happens." He'd nodded, unable to trust his own voice, moved by the whole simple event. She'd bravely shouldered her hold-all and approached the guard at the gate with her ID.

Steve should have been standing right where he and Mary had stood, giving her a final wave. It might not have been the most joyful of events, but it would have been a damned improvement on this...

It must be six already. The sun's setting bright and crimson, making for that clichéd Hawaiian picture postcard of palms silhouetted against an amber burning sky, slashed with purple cloud.

Like ash in the glowing embers of a dying fire.

Waxing poetical, there, Detective Williams?

It's all idyllic but what's foremost in his mind is that image of Steve hanging by his wrists, beaten. It follows him wherever he goes.

He's pulled up on Kalakaua Avenue, right alongside the beach – he'd intended just going for a beer – something he hadn't done for these last seven days. Always feeling the inevitable twinge of guilt each time he entertained the very idea of going in a bar. He'd compromised and had grabbed a six-pack when he picked up groceries. One drop and he felt like he was choking on the stuff.

Too many memories of sharing a beer with Steve.

In mourning?

Why not wear a black tie, huh?

No. Steve is not dead.

Danny can never believe that, despite the passing of so many days. Despite that vid burned into his memory... Steve... in pain... helpless.

He'd settled on a coffee from a beach vendor instead and sipping the soothing liquid, with its mandatory flavour of plastic cup – an acquired taste he'd gotten used to after years of being on the force - he strolls off across the darkening sand to a receding tide-line.

A good time, and place, to be about. Even for Danny Williams who doesn't like the sea. For even the Danny Williamses of this world need quiet time out occasionally. To let memories settle. To order thoughts.

The beach is free of those pale Haole holiday-makers attempting to prove that the just-barbecued look is really the new look this season, and were now busy suffering in hotel rooms plastering on the after-sun – if they were sensible.

A few couples still hung about, kissing and canoodling in shadowed corners.

Yeah, it's the romantic hour of night.

One keen photographer clicks away, who will bore his in-laws into insanity with his holiday snaps next Christmas.

Joggers after work.

Danny envies them. Not for their obvious excellent physiques, but after a day's work, he's always too pooped to even contemplate a run. Even if he wanted to over-exert himself that way. Which he absolutely never does. Running after perps was enough exercise, thank you very much.

He finishes his coffee all too quickly. And failing to see a trash can, he continues his walk along the water's edge, absently turning his empty cup in his hands.

A deserted beach at dusk.

No leads.

Dead-ends.

The two days of chopper search, before it was called off, had covered sixty per cent of the forest and hills and mountains of Oahu, radiating out from Honolulu. It didn't exactly narrow down possible locations. It simply meant, Steve and abductor weren't on the North Shore or Windward Side. Not one chopper had reported anything suspicious. Nothing on their heat sensors other than the usual walkers out hiking. And all those had been accounted for after questioning by HPD.

Chin had slowed down the voice of Steve on their vid recording to make out what he'd said exactly – it'd been harrowing to do – they'd had to convince themselves, steel themselves,_ gird their loins even_, that it was just a job they had to do... another case... impersonal.

Two words.

Matt. No.

Their abductor was... Matt.

Ok. That was good. They were on first name terms with the guy already.

But then... so was Steve. As it's unlikely that Steve had taken a shine to this guy and had struck up a blossoming friendship whilst being held, can it be deduced that Steve knows his abductor?

A quick run-down through those Navy files and again there was no one by that name. Steve had arrested a Matt Ferris six months previously on some minor charge, aiding and abetting illegal immigration. Lawyers had gotten him off on some technicality but he'd since become a Born-Again Christian, fully employed at a rehab centre. With mousey hair and no limp, he's not their man.

They even checked out Steve's neighbours. No Matt.

Their one break - and Danny had tried to argue that this might be one of many – a confirmed sighting of the red Wrangler bearing one of those forged plates. A pet and camping store off Kamehameha Highway in Kaneohe. A couple of days before Steve's disappearance. Matt the Abductor had come in with a full list for camping equipment – the man behind the counter even helped him load the Jeep. The store's surveillance camera provided the clearest pictures yet of Matt and these, though still not brilliant, had been duly handed out to all HPD officers.

Unfortunately, he'd paid with cash, so there was no trace back to a credit card account. They'd expected that. What they hadn't expected was the shop-owner supposing Matt the Abductor owned a dog.

'A dog?'

'Yeah. He bought a cage for a large dog. A Bettinger's 1021 deluxe model.'

Danny's stomach clenched.

'And how big exactly is this 'deluxe model?' Danny had to know. Though he doubted it would have any relevance to finding Steve. Just confirmed... _things_.

The store-keeper had looked at him blankly.

'How big?'

As if everyone should know the Bettinger's 1021 deluxe model blurb by heart.

'Yeah, dimensions, you know...' and Danny had held out his hands, forming some sort of imaginary box. 'Size,' he'd finished lamely.

The man had shrugged. 'Oh, large enough to carry a Rottweiler easy. One and a half yards by one and a half by three-quarters.'

Large enough to hold a man...

Danny leans against the obligatory Hawaiian palm tree, squeezing at the bridge of his nose allowing the shadows fast becoming night wrap and absorb him. He looks around again. The sea's nearly lost except for faint white trails of surf lit by the street lights that sparkle in the warm humid air. The sounds of Honolulu, the drone of traffic, horns and sirens, all mingle with the hush slow hush of the sea. This should be... paradise. But he glances back over his shoulder to the rise of the city and to where he knows the darkness hugs the distant hills and mountains...

And it's not a comforting thought that somewhere out there, lost, is Steve, still in need of their help when help, is diminishing by the day. When they can't quite snag that break they need.

And he's even seen it in Chin's eyes. Conceding that Steve might be dead by the time they find him. That Matt the Abductor has found the perfect place to hide.

HPD have stopped their searching of the trails and farm-tracks. They'll continue to keep a look-out for the Wrangler, for Matt out on the streets, but other than, Danny's been told it's pointless to continue.

Chin shakes his head. 'The forest is too thick and dense,' he says. 'Only last year, a veteran walker, on a supervised club trek, vanished without trace and he's – his body has never been found.'

No. Steve can't be dead. Just as that breeze rustles through overhead branches above his head – and on a good day, he'd find that irritating – just as that's a certainty that it will continue to do that for all eternity, so does Steve live still.

But what can Danny do to find him – in time? What can he damn well do?

He'd move mountains if he could. He'd move Diamond Head if he could.

He's already lost one ex-partner. Damned if he's going to lose another. They're soon going to call him the Black Widow.

He walks on.

Time to go...

And the irony? Always with Steve, cases are wrapped up in a day. Three days tops. But when Steve _is_ the case, the investigation drags on for a week with no resolve? What are they doing wrong here?

And he walks on, talking out loud, not particularly caring that someone might see or hear.

"Where are you, Steve, damn, where are you?"

He leaves the beach, for his "second job" he calls it, with a bitter laugh. Like Mary, he's gotten himself maps. He uses his phone for GPS. And he's hired himself a pick-up. One by one, he intends to hunt the trails, the farm tracks, anywhere... just looking.

Duty, commitments to that arms deal means that he can't take that break he threatened the Governor with. He's taking his holiday pay in lieu, anyhow, to pay for the truck rental.

To-night, like the night before, he'll be out looking in the dark. It's no problem. He's still not sleeping at nights.

'What do you hope to achieve?' Chin had questioned. And Jenna and Kono looked on fearful, like they thought the two men were going to argue. 'You need to sleep.'

'I don't sleep.' He's haunted by the vid of Steve. When he shuts his eyes, it's there.

He might get two or three hours before dawn if he's lucky. When he's worn out to the point of exhaustion. It's what it takes to knock him out finally.

He'd held up a hand against another one of Chin's protests.

'And before you say, I'm not taking any pills.'

'This is going to kill you,' Chin had said. The voice of common-sense. But his eyes had been... conflicted.

'Not half as much as Steve,' he'd replied.

A pause.

'Pick me up at seven,' Chin had eventually conceded.

'And I'll take the navigator seat with Mary,' Kono had voulnteered.

'And I'll get the bike out at the weekend,' Chin had added.

At the weekend, they'll have daylight.

At the weekend, Danny's going to miss his time with Monkey. But the kid understands. Understands with those big brown eyes of hers.

This is all slowly killing her Danno.

-H50-

He doses. Hours and minutes merge.

Seven days since he was taken from the boat?

Yeah, days. That long...

That means... Danny, the Team and HPD have had a week?

Two days, or... one day since they were buzzed by the chopper?

No. Must remember... yesterday... yesterday... was it a dream? He was hanging from the tree still... and Pierson was... mad... pissed off... holding up a phone...

Shame, humiliation.

More dreams.

And Pierson had left him in the cage. Hours alone. Darkness falling. Pierson cursing in the darkness. Torchlight flicking across the clearing. Trees eerie and grey. Noises of wildlife that Pierson disturbs as he settles into the tent.

He knows Pierson phoned the picture in. His Team must have seen him in this state by now. Shame. Humiliation.

Clue, Danno. Clue in the vid.

He imagines Danny. He imagines talking to Danny. There's half a smile at Steve's lips. A tease in his eyes. He loves to see Danny bluster and come out with all the bull-shit.

'_What's the problem, Danno? What's taking you so long?'_

He tries his hardest to keep his face straight. To force criticism into his voice.

'_In case you haven't noticed...'_ and Danny's reeling off his excuses, counting off on the fingers of his left hand. And Steve fully smiles at him. At the warmth of the familiarity.

'_What? What's to laugh at? We're trying our best here!' _

'_I know you are. I know you are,'_ he says softly.

Pierson cleans the wound. Applies a dressing. Steve clenches his jaw tight against his touch, against the cry that wants to escape.

"This wasn't supposed to happen. They forced me to do it, forced my hand. But I'll take care of you, McGarrett, I'll take care of you."

But Pierson forgets the cut on his thigh, the soiled days-old dressing there. Forgets that the cut on his lip, his thigh and his stomach need stitches. Proper medical attention. Matt's hands are blackened and dirty. Steve can't remember when Pierson had stopped washing.

"Folk should take care of each other. Especially when they say they will. He promised Mom. He promised Mom he would take care of me." The man is rambling.

"Who..." Steve swallows hard, pushing out the question. Effort. "Who promised, Matt?" He dares to ask though he's been forbidden to talk. But Pierson doesn't reply. Pierson's eyes are glazed. He's elsewhere...

A life, a mind ruined by a mistake. That Steve could have prevented...

Minutes, hours, days merge.

"The name, McGarrett!"

"No."

"The name, McGarrett!"

"No..."

The man's moods change.

Quiet. Inactive.

Thinking. Pacing. Talking to himself.

"I didn't mean it... leave me alone... no, no... I'm not saying... don't, don't."

When Pierson's like this, he forgets to feed Steve. Or give him water. It's not part of the torture. Though Steve can barely eat – he's sick with pain – he needs the water.

Cold. Efficient. Military. When Pierson knows exactly what he's doing.

Raw rage.

The last time... Pierson had gotten out the knife again...

Legs. Arms. Along Steve's sides. Drawing a teasing line across tattoos. Using the tip to threaten a gouge. And really, Steve can't possibly convince him it doesn't hurt.

"Give me the name, McGarrett!"

"No."

"Tell me the fucking name!"

"No." A third slash across his belly. Nerves and muscles of his arms take the full impact. He blacks out. Wakes up to Pierson maniacally shaking him, his fist gripping the hair on his head. A knife-edge from running Steve through with the blade. Yelling at him... words Steve can't comprehend...

All he can see is a blurred kaleidoscope of sunlight breaking in a thousand pieces beyond Pierson... the sunlight is his body shuddering, shivering with new pain...

Pierson's losing it. They're both losing it together.

Minutes. Hours. Days merge.

Pierson laughs. He calls them 'rest breaks'. Steve can't help but feel grateful. They last from only a couple of hours, to once, nearly a day and a half, following the cuts to his stomach. It depends how much he has to mend... before Pierson starts all over...

He's always so tired. Because of the pain. Despite the pain. Too tired to even work at his wire. The welding is stronger than he'd thought. And holds fast.

Awake moments. Stares at the way the sunlight flickers through the leaves, pushing away all that happening to him. His own emotions. Acquiescence. Slowly, he's allowing what's happening, to happen... Waiting. Patience.

And as afternoon downpours threaten, he stares at the way the clouds move fast... soothing, numbing. Heavy rain-drops rattle the heavy foliage – he doesn't have to think about anything. He allows healing sleep to take him.

Minutes. Hours. Days merge.

What day is it now?

A Monday? Tuesday?

Mondays, at the start of work, if nothing new has come in over the weekend, the Team review current cases.

The unsolved ones.

On file now, would be the one titled, Steve McGarrett. With an allocated code number.

He pictures his Team's concern – he knows they will be concerned – he would be too if any of them had been taken. It hurts him somewhere deep.

Emotion. That's very relevant.

Self-pity. That's he gives into.

He closes his eyes. Tired.

He closes his eyes against the tears.

He's losing it.

Pierson dresses the wound at his stomach. The gauze is damp from the rain that he sleeps through. He notices through Pierson's working fingers that it bleeds still. Red and bright. It throbs more than his other injuries. It needs stitches. Has Steve thought that already?

He's losing it.

Pierson works silently. Care in his hands. Steve watches Pierson's face. Assesses his current mood. Pierson is getting more violent, this he knows. But this is... almost tenderness.

And Steve glances over his body... assesses... skin sticky with the combination of dirt, blood and sweat - he's not going to be taking much more of this...

Give in.

No. No point. Steve would be dead in an instant.

Pierson would end up mad at someone else.

'_You like playing the martyr, McGarrett?'_ Pierson had asked. Steve is too tired to reply.

"Why didn't... you go... to your family? Your brother? Luke?" he suddenly ventures, every word an effort, but he has a pressing need to get this clear.

And Pierson doesn't seem to mind the talk.

"He's still a Seal? Think he'd want to see me? I turned. Black sheep. Anyways, we had a falling out."

"What... what over?" Steve pants out, wincing as Pierson removes the old bandage.

"Now, now, McGarrett. I know what you're doing, trying to get round me. Won't work."

"I thought... family would help."

"Your family must have been different to mine. We weren't close. And anyhow, he'd moved on. And I hadn't the new address. "

The only way Pierson had found out about Steve, Easton and Pereira was through media.

"I thought you were. I thought you were close."

Two brothers. Luke the older. Matt following in his footsteps. Inseparable. Same Team. Worked well together. A rarity.

How could Steve, how could the Navy have got that wrong?

Pierson shakes his head. "And then-"

Steve hisses as Pierson's fingers seem to stab inside his belly as he applies a new dressing.

"I slept with his girl and he didn't take kindly to that. Didn't speak much since."

Steve's alert now. More alert than he has been for days.

"But you were both on the same Team?" Any falling out had to be reported. No bad feelings could jeopardize operations.

"Ask for a transfer? It was her fault as much as mine. Can't help it if my brother can't hold onto his women? Sides which... I pretty much slept with everyone's girl. You never knew that, did you? Jayne? Remember her, McGarrett?"

Jayne. A brunette. Still in Naval Intelligence. It'd lasted two months and then she'd gone cool. And didn't answer Steve's calls.

"Truth. I'm not lying." Pierson finishes and stands, patting Steve's shoulder. Mocking him. "Poor innocent Stevie, huh?" He locks the cage again and walks back to his tent. "That's why I was called 'Sleepy.' Slept around with anyone's girl."

Steve can almost hear the grin in the guy's voice.

Shit. Because Steve never _did_ know...

'_You need to lighten up, Mr Aneurism Face. It's not all about duty,'_ says Danny.

But it explains a few things. Why anyone would want to leave Pierson dead in a jungle on the Thai-Chinese border.

Steve settles against the back of the cage.

Looks up to the turquoise blue, tinged with a hint of yellow and pink, squared black with the wire mesh. It'll turn dark soon. The tree tops have that same hint of colour. He shivers. The damp air is already turning cool. He remembers something he should never have forgotten.

'_Sorry, man, that I got picked.' _

_He'd been promoted over Luke Pierson though Luke had been in the service longer._

_Luke pats his arm. 'No worries. The best man won. You were always meant for the fast track.' Luke's trying to say good things, but his mind is elsewhere, distracted by Matt and Orstrowski, drinking, sniggering over some private joke in the corner of the mess-room. Luke can't seem to take his eyes off them._

'_Some men are born to lead. Others to pick up the pieces and wipe grazed knees after.'_

_He sounds bitter and it's not directed at Steve. _

_Matt and Orstrowski laugh even more loudly. A girl they'd met on leave. How... 'skilled' she was. Matt looks Luke's way. There's challenge in the look._

'_Some day, I'm gonna kill him,' says Luke._

Steve should have known about the bad feeling between the two, should have acted on it. He'd just upped a rank. Was riding high. Thinking of himself.

A mistake. Another goddamned mistake.

'_You're only human,' says Danny, 'Don't be so hard on yourself.' _

Something flaps noisily, in the leaves up there. A bird. Free.

There's going to be no more self-pity.

_What? I deserve all of this. Because I made a mistake?_

"The name McGarrett! Who are you trying to protect?"

There's a line in a movie - he can't remember the title – 'The truth? You can't handle the truth.'

"Give me the name, McGarrett!"

"No."

Pain.

"Give me the goddamned name!"

He coughs out 'no'. His lungs hurt. Pierson has used the water on him again.

The prod now. Pain from the prod, that he can't curl away from.

"You think I deserved it?" yells Pierson. "You think I deserved to be left behind? You think I'm bad? Look at the stuff I'm doing to you. I'm bad, I'm bad, McGarrett. You think you can punish me? By not giving me that name!"

Pain. Detail. Sweat, glistening on the stretched sinews of his arm. Steve wants to free and accepts the black and silence.

Minutes. Hours. Days. Merge.

He works at the metal wire, when he thinks Pierson isn't looking but he knows it's pointless.

If Pierson remembers to feed him, he can barely eat. Can barely swallow water even.

He grades his injuries.

His shoulder.

The cuts on his stomach.

Somewhere inside. Probably his kidneys.

Pierson makes him share the cage with a pan for soils. Even in his weakened state, Pierson doesn't trust him to go the latrine. It, and his wounds attract the flies. Pierson empties it. Even loosened his chains, so he can manoeuvre to use it. Forced him to remove and hand over his shorts too, leaving him naked. It's humiliating...

He's used the pan four times. Not enough, he knows. Cutting pain when he did. Pierson says he knows where to hurt him not to do damage, but the ache in Steve's kidneys tells him different. Detail. De-hydration is a contributory factor too.

The piercing headache. The fact that as the days go on, he perspires less but feels the heat more. Are all down to de-hydration too.

A plan forms. He could chose the right moment and wrap the slack chain round Pierson's neck – he wouldn't need to kill him – just enough of a squeeze to take him out. But... who does he think he's kidding? He hasn't the strength. He can never resist when Pierson drags him out to the tree.

A coughing fit. And he adds his lungs to the list.

He watches Pierson, busily himself with preparing his evening meal. Detail. The burner on the stove sparkles like a star in the dying light.

Pierson is muttering to himself.

"You think I deserve it? No... no... it wasn't him. It wasn't him. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't do that."

It's meaningless.

And Steve feels so much more cut off from human-kind. Alone.

Pierson has forgotten to bring him water again.

Self-pity.

He drifts off to sleep and... wakes with a start. A noise.

Though Pierson isn't there.

Not quite fully dark.

And he hates it when Pierson isn't in sight. That sense - Pierson might spring something on him. And he's wildly trying to look around. The jerk is enough to pull at all his wounds - his stomach - and his hands instinctively reach for the dressing at his belly. A patch of wetness warns him he mustn't move.

The tent is still there. Steve hasn't been left to die in his cage. Would Pierson do that to him? Leave him there? Another form of torture.

Pierson's told him that he'd abandoned the bodies of both Cameron Easton and Mario Pereira where they'd died, claiming that Mario had died of a heart-attack before he'd even touched him. Didn't bother to bury their bodies. Perhaps there's another version to that story? Perhaps Pierson had deserted them to suffer and die a slow death? Didn't even need to kill either man with his own two hands...

He puts the thought away.

Cracks.

Cracks to his confidence.

_You can do this, Steve. You can outlast anything Pierson can throw at you._

Some.

Self- pity.

And he curls up, gingerly avoiding his wounds, shivering, needing warmth as the night surrounds him. Needing so much.

Again, he wakes suddenly, crying out with cramp - that's down to dehydration too. And he tries to push his leg hard against the side of the cage to ease this new pain –

No space to move –

Anger -

And then he kicks out with the cramped leg –

Anger-

"Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck! Fuck!"

And his instructor's voice echoes loud in his head. Feel it. Anger. Anger. Anger and he's breathing so deeply, his ribs are hurting and his voice comes out as a sob -

Because... because, Pierson had a year of this?

Detail.

His own rollercoaster of emotions that are little different to Pierson's mood swings. It throws him. That he can't rein them. One moment, he's defiant... the next... he's so sorry for the shit that's come Pierson's way... he feels so bad that he's partly to blame.

'_You can't turn the clock back, son,' says his father, following his mother's death. 'I wish it could be done. I really wish that more than anything else in the world.'_

The cramp subsides and he slouches back against the mesh, wishing he could just this once, straighten out his drawn-up knees.

He listens to the noises of the forest...

It's dark and he's still alone in the clearing.

And he recalls that night again in vivid detail, that voice yelling at him over his radio. The sound of gunfire in the background.

'_Under fire! We've lost Matt. Matt and Jonesy! Repeat! Under fire! My God, my God, I've lost Matt!'_

'_Leader Team Eagle. Confirm. Over.'_

'_Yeah, yeah, yeah, both dead! We're coming out! Need cover!'_

_The fear in the voice. _

_Panic._

_There shouldn't have been panic in the man's voice. They were professionals. Trained for every contingency. There shouldn't be fear there. It was wrong. Out of place. Steve reading it wrong? It was grief for two brothers in arms, killed in an unexpected ambush? _

_The flicker of a thought – the order for Leader Team Eagle to check - but he knew the surviving four men's safety had to come first. No time to lose. He had to trust Leader Team Eagle's word. The living had to come first. The priority was now to avoid capture. To avoid implicating the US. He didn't want to make that decision to pull out. But it was down to him. _

'_Mission abort!' He'd hissed to both Teams as he and 'Sudoko' scanned the tree-line through night vision goggles, the infra-red dot of his rifle ready to pick off any resistance the four might encounter as they made their way out. _

And one of them was the man Pierson was after...

No.

Two names.

Matt, Jones, Luke and Sunderland had gone forward, advancing on their target. Pereira and Lyon were positioned back some one hundred yards, guarding their six.

Matt and Jones were presumed dead. That left just Luke and Sunderland...

Revenge.

Pierson can narrow the name down to just one of two. He's going to all this trouble for one name out of two.

He doesn't want to know the name.

All good men. And four are now dead. Two needlessly.

All good men.

_Two gruelling months followed of jungle trekking by night. Snatches of sleep by day. Watching. On guard. They mustn't be captured. The strain of watching out for each one of his eight men unrelenting... _

He must have dosed off again as he wakes to the sound of Pierson moving in the campsite. Pale light - and it's morning once more. He coughs, spitting mucus. It hurts his lungs to cough. Still coughing, shivering, trembling with the chill of the morning, as he stiffly pushes himself to sitting, wiping away the discharge in his eyes that's blurring his vision.

Pierson dumps a tool bag down beside the cage. Detail. Canvas. Coloured taupe. Pocketed. The sort of bag a tradesman would own. It thuds down, flattening vegetation recovering from Pierson's clearance.

Pierson is searching in the bag. Pulls out wire-cutters. Throws them down.

And then - a small hack saw -

Steve stomach knots. He's really not ready for any more of this shit. He backs away into one corner. The thought - he's like a mongrel, scared because he's going to be beaten by his human master again.

Pride.

And he positions himself, squares himself to face up to whatever Pierson is going to mete out this time. Determined. Defensive. He might even use his chain to take down Pierson after all. Even if it kills him trying.

Pierson lets the saw drop, steps back to the tree, and is flipping the rope from the branch where it's been left trailing from the last... session.

He ties off a loop round the base of the trunk and then feeds the remainder of the rope in a line on the ground, allowing the end to fall, a yard short of the cage.

Pierson retrieves – not the hack-saw, but the wire-cutters -

"Move over! I need room this side!"

Steve doesn't do as he's told immediately.

"Now!"

It takes his fumbling brain some twenty seconds to register what the order means, and even longer to figure out he won't gain by disobeying. He shifts to the front of the cage, leaving the space clear at the back.

No clue about what Pierson intends to do.

Even when Pierson begins hacking away at some of the lower sections of mesh near the point where Steve's right-hand manacle is anchored.

Steve watches his every move. Mesmerized. Inches away. As Pierson tackles the wires to make a much larger hole.

Detail. Metal debris mixes with the leaves of the forest floor.

Detail. The cage rhythmically shakes with every one of Pierson's sharp movements, jarring Steve's wounds. Grating his head.

Pierson stands finally, satisfied with his work and pulls out the key for the lock to Steve's right-hand manacle.

"Put your hand through the hole."

What the?

"Put out your hand." This time Pierson says it with more authority and threat.

Again Steve won't budge. His dry tongue rides over dry lips, eyes glancing to the area where he knows the cattle prod is stashed. Looks to the hack-saw. The bag of tools. A mind trying to push away the awful possibilities that could link a bag of tools to his exposed arm outside of the cage.

"Put out your hand." Pierson's voice changes again – it's more conciliatory and he follows Steve's look back to the tent. "I don't want to use the prod. This is going to be for your own good, believe me... to take away the pain. But I need your arm free."

Pierson's finally going to kill him... that would be... that would be taking away the pain...

"Put out your hand. You put out your hand and you get water. Promise. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Talking to a dog. Like talking to a dog. And Steve wants, _needs_ the water so much.

"You can give me water without me... doing... that." He throws out, turning up his chin. His voice is rough. His throat is parched and talking isn't easy. But he puts authority into his own voice. He's not lost it. He's not lost his ability to make a stand.

Pierson sighs and makes for the water tank. He finds a cup and sets the tap running. Returns and stoops expecting Steve to take the water via the new hole.

Steve hesitates – it's a trick – but Pierson encourages him – pushing the cup further forward so Steve doesn't have to reach far.

It's like trying to bring a wild dog round.

Steve suddenly snatches for the water, because god, he needs it, slopping out too much of the liquid. His hands tremble. He knows he's perpetually shaking but not this much. He drinks greedily. Each gulp more painful than it ought to be. The small amount quickly fills a stomach unaccustomed to accepting food or drink. He soon feels bloated.

"Want some more?" offers Pierson.

Steve shakes his head. It hurts.

"No," he croaks. He won't be beholden to Pierson. And returning the cup would bring his hand too close to that hole again.

Pierson crouches lower, looking right into Steve's eyes. "I'll get you some more and you can rinse your face. Have a wash down. You'd feel better, huh?"

Good cop, bad cop.

But it reminds him how dirty he is, how much he does long to shave off his beard.

"I'm fine."

Pierson shrugs. "You can put your hand out then."

Steve doesn't.

"I thought we had a deal," Pierson warns.

"Let me go, Pierson. Stop playing games. Just let me go. I'm not going to tell you what you want to know."

"You trying to hold off till your friends find you, huh? They're not going to. The search is practically off. Only Williams and Kelly keep it up. In their spare time. It doesn't take long for people to forget."

No mention of Kono?

Then... Pierson, on his latest trip away from the camp has seen Danny and Chin? Pierson is taking risks. He might have gotten himself spotted. And for Steve, hope rises...

"Two's enough," he growls back. He knows it not true. Others would still be looking. Pierson's lying.

Lying.

Lying. Lying.

To undermine Steve. All a part of the interrogation.

And Pierson can tell what he's thinking.

"I'm telling the honest truth, McGarrett. You've been abandoned. Just like I was."

"You weren't ever abandoned," he insists. "I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know."

And he's losing it.

To be repeating himself like that. He shakes his head again. Trying to clear it. What's wrong with him? He doesn't even notice that Pierson has gone for the cattle prod. He tucks his hand down by his thigh. He's not going to let Pierson have his hand. He's just not.

Pierson rattles the cage above him, unlocking the upper section and lifting it up. Steve backs away with no place to go again and the prod gets him at a shoulder blade. He arcs. Screaming through clenched teeth. Secondary pain kicks him, radiating up and out from the cuts on his stomach.

The lid crashes shut above him - Where's Pierson? - again at back of the cage - low to the ground –and - grabs Steve's hand through the hole before Steve has had a chance to react.

Steve cries out.

Dismay that he's failed - that he's so physically weak - no matter how much he tries to pull back, he can't match Pierson's grip on his hand.

Pierson unclasps the wrist manacle - jerks Steve's right arm – his bad arm - bodily yanking Steve's whole body up close to the mesh – shock, the violence of the movement - senses desert him in a sea of grey...

He's barely conscious when Pierson ties the tree rope securely round his wrist.

He struggles - his arm is stretched out tight on the ground.

God no. God no. God no.

The hacksaw.

He's still sees it in the green. God no.

Ransom demands and images of fingers sent in shoe-boxes...

He flexes his wrist helplessly, trying to twist round damaged fingers for the knot of the rope.

God no. Please. He's ready. He's ready to tell Pierson what he wants to know...

But Pierson has returned to his tool kit... something...

And Steve tries to focus... honest... he's just got to focus... sees... as the dark shape of Pierson clears... a syringe in his hand - Steve guesses he filled it in the seconds he was nearly out. Truth serum? Surely Pierson knows that wouldn't work? Statistics -

Pierson stoops down again. Steve caves in exhausted. He can't fight this. Not how weak he is.

Pierson smoothes a hand down the length of Steve's lower arm. His probing fingers come to a stop and Pierson concentrates on the dip at his elbow.

Steve can't stop his shivering.

"Lucky you struggled. Popped up a lovely vein. This will be good. Told you I'd take care of you. This will take away the pain," says Pierson.

A pain killer? How would Pierson have gotten hold of a pain killer? Hospital. Danny could track that? Illegal procurement of medical drugs. It gets found out. Hope rises another notch. Pierson is making mistakes. He's leaving a trail a mile high.

"_This_ is what they gave me. The best. They were in the opium trade after all. Heroin."

And Steve reacts instantly, twisting at everything that binds him. He's not going to take this. He's not going to take this.

"Their pain killer, freely available. Have some. McGarrett. On me."

And he drives the needle in.

No. No. No.

"It'll take a few minutes to work, McGarrett. Though in your weakened state, perhaps even quicker. Shooting heroin works faster than inhaling. I know that you know that. And your first time, I bet? I promise you, it'll be good. The first time is the very best..."

And already the sound is going... Pierson's voice... fades... as if... Pierson has walked into a distant room... Steve has taken so many blows to the head, his ears constantly buzz... but this background noise dips... recedes... Pierson's voice... still, quiet, low... a part of the forest...

"They'll be no pain, where you're going... They gave this stuff to me... Months... months... Took me a year to finally come off... Enjoy, McGarrett. I'll take care of you, McGarrett. Didn't I promise, I would?"

No. No. He's not going to accept this. He struggles again. No room with his legs crushed up in the space at the other end of the cage. The torn ends of the mesh tear at the tender flesh of his underarm. He hisses at this new pain... floating... has to... has to...

Breathing slows... he knows his pulse rate... counts... it's slowing... the poison is working and there shit-all he can do about it... floating... like he's at sea... like he's parachuting... free-falling... floating in nothing... like he's dropping into sleep... limbs heavy... like... he needs to sleep... which he is... he fights it...then... a desire to go with it... both... he attempts to hitch himself up, to sit up... impossible... why didn't he remember that? Remember that he's tied down... manacled... he lifts his head... hey... manacled... a bitter taste... a wave of nausea hits him so down goes his head... and allows the sensation take him... warmth... like too much good wine... and the forest, the whole wide world loops a little... swings and comes back to him... perfect... it's all so perfect... floating in water... he'd gotten drunk as a recruit... only the once because he won't let alcohol poison his body... hates... hates this drug poisoning this body... hates he has no control... relaxed... he might say something?... Is this what Pierson wants? Sure he does... there was a question... a name... Pierson wants a name... Pierson's gonna have to wait, man... Pierson... he's there... and hey, there's his boots and he's a good guy, bad guy... and there's that bird again and it's chirping away full of the joys of life... no... hawks don't chirp... how does a hawk go... and he lets the sensation take him... because... the pain goes... it just fucking goes... and he wants to sleep but he wants to enjoy this sensation... but then he doesn't because he knows how it's been set up... the conflicted feelings fade... the sounds of the forest turn to music... he's absorbed in the light, fuzzy fireworks sparkling in the forest... inside his head... or outside his head?... tinkling bells... it's the god's honest truth... he can hear tinkling bells and he can imagine Danny saying something about that... _'you with the fairies?'_... _'hey, that's so clichéd. What are you, living in the sixties?'_ he says back... and he laughs... his lips crack but he doesn't care... he's itchy, scratchy... but hell, he doesn't care, he doesn't fucking care... he just laughs... then he sees Pierson... sees his boots... the white of an outstretched arm as he shoots too... that's... bad... good... what?... the world loops again... returns him... he looks up... mesh of cage... neat... blue squares of sky... neat... hawk... the world loops away from him again... almost like darkness... floating in darkness... that final... that final... that final part of being intimate with Catherine... intimate?... hey... _hey, Steve don't be a prude_.. . and he laughs again because this all so fucking funny...

But it honestly... is... it absolutely... is... no pain... nothing... nothing...

-H5O-


	7. Chapter 7

A/N Thx again everyone, for alerts, favs and reviews – especially those who haven't a fanfic account that I haven't been able to thank personally.

Neptune60 has pointed out that, in Chapter Six, Kono would join in the search of the forest for Steve, too. I had originally written that she did, in fact, join up with Mary but had deleted it, as it felt too clumsy. I assumed, you'd take it as read, that Kono would be doing her bit in the name of Ohana. I was wrong and her sentence has been re-inserted.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Seven<span>

Kamekona stands over the guy.

No. Correction.

He has his size 15's placed firmly placed on the man's chest, squidging out every last bit of air. And the man is coming atom-size close to the point of suffocation.

Danny's once again reminded why McGarrett likes Kamekona.

The man. One Jesus Fergus, 5' 9", haole, around 200 pounds, wanted by various narcotic departments for petty stuff across five mainland states. Tracked down by Kamekona's own grapevine – he was doing his own private search for news of either Steve or the Jeep.

But Danny's suddenly worried he might have to make two arrests here – and one might be for involuntary manslaughter.

"Hey, Kame... man... ease off, huh? Blue just isn't his colour." Danny holds his head to one side, scrutinizing Fergus - ashen coloured face, gasping, trying to force some life back down into his lungs through what must be now one very bruised throat. Fergus has two hands firmly on Kamekona's trainers – and Danny's genuinely amazed that the man that Kamekona has pinned to the ground can even make that much of an attempt to try and heave Kamekona off.

"Ok people, break it up! There is nothing to see here!" says Danny.

Ok. That was clichéd. Like something out of a movie. And Danny's waving his badge at the crowd that's gathered on the sidewalk of Leahi Avenue, a stone's throw from the beach.

"This is the man?" he asks, turning his attention back to Kamekona.

"Yes, this is the man whom I have conveyed my apprehension on."

Danny blinks at him, never too sure if Kamekona is ever kidding with this kind of stuff.

Danny lowers his voice. He'd have a quiet word in the big guy's ear if it'd weren't so far away. "You ok with this?" And he looks around. "I mean here in public?" Would an informant ever want to be this open about helping the police? It might get your throat cut in some dark alley. "I thought you guys had some sort of code of honour?"

"This... this object of my disgust has been selling heroin and such obnoxions to kids, kamali'i, as little as eight." Kamekona's nodding the full significance of this, looking down at his victim like he's the piece of shit, he really is.

Kamekona knows exactly what he's doing.

Fergus, deciding he's now breathed sufficient of God's good air and is looking a much healthier shade of pink, now adds his piece.

"Get this freaking freak offa me!"

"I am aiding and abetting a police officer. A citizen's arrest. Book him, Danno."

_Yeah, how about that._ Danny smiles wanly. _Now everyone thinks they can say it._

And Danny, sighing, tugs at his pants' knees and bends down to the man's sidewalk view of the world.

"Jesus Fergus, I'm arresting you for the supply of Schedule One illegal substances," he reels off. Though this really isn't his job. HPD boys, who, five minutes previously had just leapt out of a blue and white, find themselves suddenly with nothing to do and stand round kicking their feet, arms folded, not at all comfortable at the prospect of being accessories to a police brutality charge.

"Do you understand the charges made against you?"

"Get him off me! He can't do this!" Squeals Fergus in response.

Still Kamekona's foot doesn't move.

Jeez, it must be like having an elephant stand on you.

But Danny has no inclination to tell Kamekona to slack off again.

"Some questions first."

"He's going to kill me!" Danny looks up to the mountain of flesh, blocking out the Honolulu sunshine.

"Him, nah. He's a gentle giant really. An absolute sweetheart."

Kamekona audibly scoffs.

"Now me... see these eyes?" He points to his own eyes. "The worse kind. Steely blue. The eyes of a killer. It's me you have to fear. And see this?" He pulls out his badge. "Hawaii-Five-O. Full means and immunity. I could shoot off a very private part of your anatomy and you couldn't say a thing – actually you probably wouldn't because you'd be screaming. But hey. Just answer my questions, huh, and you'll be fine. You've been spotted supplying the driver of a red Wrangler with heroin outside the Olioli Club?"

"I didn't do nothing." Stock and standard reply. There must be some memo doing the rounds telling these guys what to say when arrested.

"Yes, but you've been seen. By witnesses? "

"Witnesses?" asks Fergus, like he really hasn't a clue. Must be lack of oxygen to the brain.

"You don't know what witnesses are? They don't lie, that's what witnesses are!" interrupts Kamekona, warning, "and you'd better not lie to the good officer either!"

That trainer downloads another extra ten pound on the guy's neck.

Danny sighs and gives Kamekona a look. How's he supposed to his work here if Kamekona actually kills Fergus? Kamekona raises an eyebrow apologetically and does a shrug that sends ripples of further shrugs across his thick body tissue. And releases the pressure.

A little.

"You were even seen by surveillance cameras-"

"Pretty dumb," breaks in Kamekona again, nodding.

"You were seen dumping a package in the back. You made a trade? You made a trade in the club?" Though Matt the Abductor hadn't been spotted _limping_ into or out of the Olioli. "This is simple. I need that name." A clearer id.

"What do I get?" croaks out the man.

"You get to breathe," growls Kamekona. Nice. Danny couldn't have put it better himself.

The man on the ground shakes his head.

"No? Look," continues Danny, "this man is nothing to you. He's not a regular trader? You owe him nothing. A haole. You're going down for all your other sales anyhow. I can't let you go. But I could get you off this one."

"Makes no difference. I'm breaking parole anyhow," Fergus struggles out.

Kamekona's foot comes down hard again and the man is soon gasping, trying to kill the ankle tree-trunk, his nails gouging out red marks above the Hawaiian's ankle socks. Kamekona is impervious.

"Ok! Ok!" he wheezes out, relenting, when he sees that Danny and the police aren't going to do anything to stop the big guy.

Kamekona thankfully eases off.

"Ok! Six foot! Dark hair! Slight build!"

"I need a name. I need more," presses Danny, remembering the fuzzy pictures they have so far. He'd be grateful for a new super-improved description.

"No name. It's not how it's done."

"But you saw him? You were up close. Then my friend here will assist you up, and these two other gentleman here," indicating the two cops, "will drive you to police HQ in their nice motor vehicle which is fully air-conditioned and more than you deserve-"

Again, a flick of a thought.

_How the hell is Steve coping in this heat?_

"-so we can get a something like a Rembrandt drawn up," though feeling, this was all going to be another exercise in utter futility.

Kamekona heaves the man bodily to his feet and then lifts him more some, hauling him off one-handed by the scruff of his neck to the patrol car. The boys in blue, duly cuff him.

"But it's weird," Fergus suddenly calls out as he's about to be guided into the back-seat. "The guy must have been going on forty and he was clean. Either this was his first time or he'd been off the stuff for years."

Because no addict ever gets to blow out forty candles on a birthday cake.

Why did Danny's heart sink at this? So, why had the Jeep's driver been buying the heroin? For someone else...

Danny hurries over, raising a hand to the HPD officers.

"Hold on! Stop there! Stop there!" And all faces turn to him. "How much did you sell him?"

"Not much. Four ounces. Enough for four hits."

Enough.

"But it ain't unusual for an ex-military to fall back."

"You know that? You know he was ex-military?" pushes Danny.

"Camouflage pants? In this weather? Tats. Scar. Near his eyebrow. And he limped. Yeah. Soldier. I know the look. I was in Iran you know. You get dumped by your country. Pensioned off. Have to fend for yourself. I know the look. He'd been living rough too."

Scar...

"And..." Fergus trails off.

"What?" Funny how the guy was remembering more in an upright position.

"He had a carrier bag full of baby food."

_Kid? Have we even got the right guy?_

"The bag have a brand name?"

"It was green?" says Fergus apologetically the guys in blue, finally duck his head down.

"Try Steinbeck's discount store, off King Street," suggests one of the cops, opening the driver's door. "My sister's got three kids under four. Goes there for bargain stuff. House full of green bags."

"Yeah. That might have been it," says Fergus from inside the car.

Danny and Kamekona watch as the vehicle drives off.

"You still have no idea where he is?" Commiserates Kamekona, deadly serious, following Danny's tired gaze to the distant hills, where Danny and the team still continue their nightly search.

Danny can barely shake his head.

"You still think he's up there?"

"The Jeep was plastered in mud. It's a wonder the camera picked up the plates. It'd been up a trail somewhere," explains Danny numbly.

Two days ago, it'd rained. But the trails hadn't dried up. Not in this humidity. Soon it will rain again. Storms are brewing in this heat. Every day the clouds build up over the peaks. Threatening. They're nearly praying for rain. To break this heat. Again, how is Steve coping? If at all...

"Yeah, he's up there," murmurs Kamekona. "I feel it in my water."

More information than Danny needs to know.

Danny pulls himself together and pats Kamekona's arm before heading over to the Camaro, already on his cell to ask Kono to check out Steinbeck's.

And to re-check those military records. Again. Though it's not so good when they have to rely on the opinion of a street hustler.

Steinbeck's going to be another dead end though. Their abductor would have paid by cash and been in and out before anyone could identify him.

Same old.

Danny's been put on loudspeaker and the voice of a concerned Chin asks, "he bought heroin?" He'd been out of the office when the call came through and obviously hadn't been updated as yet.

"Doesn't say much for his stability," the Korean concludes, "if we were drawing up a profile here."

"I know, I know. I hear you. But I have a hunch... and that hunch is... these things... he's buying baby food. He might have a kid. I doubt it. He has Steve alive. He's keeping Steve alive. I...I just feel that."

Facts. Facts. They should stick to facts. Police procedure. But he can't help his hunches. Based on his feelings. And the heroin? Danny just doesn't want to know-

He swivels round and points to an ear, walking backwards.

"You did good, Kamekona! Keep your ears and eyes open. We've taken Fergus off the streets. Our guy will be looking for another seller if he comes back a second time."

Or heaven help Steve – this _was _his second time.

-H5O-

"I brought you this."

Steve tries to focus on the dish before him. It looks like some thick soup. Odourless. But his stomach, his brain feels revolted by it.

Pierson gives half a laugh, nervous. "I had this idea you might be able to eat baby food."

He's finding it hard to eat anything Pierson gives him.

The flies won't leave him alone. He swats them away. He constantly feels itchy. That's down to the flies, settling, not leaving him alone... peace. He needs peace.

But he knows the itchiness is also down to the heroin.

The baby food is placed in front of him. It's bland and has no odour but it has him reeling.

The nausea is down to the heroin too.

"It has all the nutrients that you need," says Pierson. He's encouraging Steve with a spoonful. Like Steve's a kid. But Steve can hardly lift his head. It's not long since Pierson hauled him out and water-boarded him over and over. He coughs. His lungs hurt. The water doesn't hurt him like the bruises and burns would - but hurts his lungs. And all his wounds open up with his pathetic struggling. He can't believe he once made plans to try and escape. He couldn't even make it to the edge of the clearing.

'_Tell me the name.' _

'_No.'_

'_That name.'_

'_No.'_

And his face is forced back under the cloth.

Tomorrow, he'll get beaten...

But he's numb now and doesn't care. He guesses it's a kind of shock. Like exercise when you go through the barrier. The pain has taken him over now and it's become normal. He'd tried detaching himself from it - at the beginning - when he could think straight. Now it totally absorbs him. And that's all he is. Pain. But it still doesn't stop him from praying it will go away...

'_Tell me the bastard's name!'_

And he's gasping. And he can't think straight and doesn't even understand the question. And when it comes to him... he remembers it's all to do with loyalty and loyalty means something important to him. Steve's just not going to hand someone over like that. Not to save his own skin. Ever.

'_Not... telling. Protecting. Him. You. From... yourself.'_

'_You keep saying that!'_

'_Then... must... be... true... and... you... maybe... gotta... ac... cept... that...'_

Danny... The Team will come for him soon. Buy time... buy time...

But... he's lost count of the days... Detail. Detail leaves him. It's been... It's been over two weeks?

"You really can't eat?"

"No."

He knows he has to eat but he just can't take it.

Something hurts inside too.

He's seen the way his bones already stick through his skin. He's never carried excess body fat. There was never anything left there to burn except his own body tissue. He knows all the science of his own metabolism. He knows he can go a couple of days with nothing as long as he gets fluids. Pierson still neglects him but thunderstorms keep the pan filled – a wonderful refreshing rain that cools the heat of Steve's body – so he's been drinking from that and setting aside one corner of the cage to urinate. But he still hurts inside.

Pierson looks back to his tent. He's hesitant.

"I can give you some more... _stuff_ for the pain." And Steve's been watching Pierson. He's been shooting. He wonders if Pierson's uncertain because he knows his supply of the drug is running out.

"No," he coughs.

But Pierson is forcing Steve's hand through the hole in the cage again, tying his wrist. And Steve struggles because he just doesn't want it.

"It's not so good the second time," the guy apologizes, coming back from the tent, syringe in hand.

"I don't want it. I don't want it," he's shaking his head, banging it against the sides of the cage.

"Sure you do, Steve. Sure you do. You just say those things but you know you do." And the needle sinks in. "You're feeling better already, huh? I used to say that, then... I couldn't get enough. Would do anything to get another fix. When I was finally forgotten about, when you guys didn't care whether I was alive or not, when I had no value, when I couldn't be used as a pawn in their little political games anymore, they gave me some freedom. They gave me chores to do around the camp site. I could earn my fix. Sometimes I'd be their pretty boy, you know? I didn't particularly care. Sorta got a taste for that too? Get my drift? That's what leaving me behind did, McGarrett. Think I shouldn't blame anyone for that, McGarrett?"

"Choices..."

The word leaves Steve's lips as an incoherent murmur with no meaning. He's already in a sleepy stupor when nothing matters anymore. He attempts to track down the word, why it was important enough to say it, but the effort fails him.

No detail.

He's aware of Pierson, coming round to the front of the cage, coming close, running his fingers through his hair. It's nice. And the jungle, forest, jungle-forest is green and the sky is blue. And he looks up and the hawk is flying and that must be nice too. And he could fly if he had wings because he's a part of the big blue sky and there's no pain there and the jungle-forest sort of hugs round him and takes him and flips him to somewhere warm... and that's all he is... warm sensation...

A voice hums.

"Would you do that for me, Stevie? You like these feelings you're getting? You'd do anything so I could give you some more? I could do that, Stevie? I could give you all the stuff you need for the pain. To feel good. Would you tell me what I want to know to drive away the pain, Stevie? Would you? Huh?"

-H5O-

The photo-fit Fergus supplies, doesn't match anything they have on record. No match to anything on the files of Steve's fellow Navy Seals. Nothing from Steve's Navy Intelligence days either. The search has been extended to include any service personnel that might have come into contact with Steve and have a grudge.

Nothing.

Dead ends.

Again.

Fergus' theory and Grifferson's theory that the abductor is military can't be right. But Danny still remembers the way that Matt handled himself on that boat two weeks earlier – and that feels like proof enough. If it were a perp, then it was a perp used to handling a boat – and one used to careful planning. Planning like a military operation.

An ex-cop, maybe? But Steve hadn't been around long enough to make those sort of enemies? Yeah, Steve had sometimes rubbed one or two cops up the wrong way. Danny, to name but one...

They have a direct line, courtesy of Grifferson, to a guy in military records in Washington. And he's now firmly getting pissed off with Danny and refuses to look a_ third_ time, to check.

Why do these guys get personally affronted when you call them an asshole for not looking correctly in the first place?

He's thinking of giving Grifferson a piece of his mind about that offer of full co-operation with the police. But Danny still has Catherine's number and he remembers how good Catherine is at getting this kind of information. He could nearly fall in love with Catherine.

"Danny, I might get caught," she says.

It takes her six hours.

Then she's back. Apologetic for the delay.

"I had to crack a few codes. Got nothing."

But she doesn't sound disappointed. She sounds... excited, hyped-up. "By chance, I mis-typed and got directed to MIA? Danny... your guy... I can't download and send you the files. Ask Grifferson. Your photo fit is a match for Matt Pierson. The brother of Luke Pierson, another one of the Seals on GhostHawk. He's not dead. My god, Danny. Why has he gone after Steve and those two others?"

Danny is straight on the phone demanding another satellite meeting with Grifferson.

He's mad now.

"Try to calm down," urges Kono. "We don't want to alienate him."

"Alienate?" he asks, incredulous. "Alienate? You have even begun to see me 'alienate'." He's had it to the back teeth with bureaucrats in offices. He's blunt. He blurts out everything that Catherine has told him. "I want this guy's file. And I want answers. What exactly happened on Operation Ghosthawk?"

But he doesn't get the expected fudging. Grifferson seems genuinely surprised and concerned.

"I told you everything. But this Matt Pierson is still alive? How? How could he be? Where did you get this information?"

"I'm not at liberty to tell you," he dead pans, deliberately using one of Grifferson's own phrases.

And rather than railing at him, the Commander throws another question.

"MIA?" Like he really can't believe it.

"It appears he's not very missing. And he's certainly in action."

"Why hasn't he contacted his brother?"

"Try asking him."

"Did he turn rogue?" asks Chin. "The operation went wrong because this Matt Pierson was an informant?"

"It's possible his death could have been faked," says Grifferson, considering, and then promptly changes his mind, going all defensive-like on them. "No. No. Two of the team verified he was dead. They hid the body and got out of there."

Stiff. To attention. Danny fully expects him to hoist up the stars and stripes and salute. He'd seen that look in Steve.

"He obviously survived. And was taken prisoner?" suggests Chin.

"Then we'd expect his captors to play this for all its worth. Torture, then publicly paraded on-line before execution to humiliate this country, leaving us to spend the next six months smoothing over an international diplomatic incident. No. Pierson couldn't have talked then..." He's thinking out loud.

Danny inwardly and outwardly winces. That thought. Of torture. That here on Hawaii, dealing with their pervs, even Wo Fat, must seem like a piece of cake to Steve. A vacation nearly.

"Well, whatever, you guys must have made a mistake," says Danny shaking his head. "He's escaped and now is out after revenge for leaving him behind? It's all down to breaking that unbreakable Seal code? You know? 'Never leave a man behind'?"

And god, what is he saying? That Steve made a mistake? He was in charge of these people, wasn't he?

They all exchange glances.

"That looks like the possible scenario," admits Grifferson, sadly. "The poor bastard..." And suddenly this very official person doesn't seem very official looking at all. "Though McGarrett, too," he adds in a hurry.

"It doesn't help..." says Kono, reluctant to finish. She swallows. Looks to the table and then up again with hurt in her eyes. "It doesn't help us to find Steve. All we have now is a name. A possible motive." Chin moves to her side and hugs her. And she's grateful for the comfort.

"No. No. You're right, Kono. It doesn't help," says Danny, softly. They're united for all the wrong reasons. Grief. Sorrow.

"We're not giving up," says Danny. "We have a name, now, guys. That's more than we had this time yesterday. We are _not_ going to wait for a body to turn up. That just isn't going to happen. Ok? We have the arms deal to investigate? We work on that. In the meantime, something else will show. "

They both look at him numbly.

His motivational talk didn't work then. Not even on himself.

Two hours later finds him devoting time to said arms deal investigation. What else can he do? Any of them? Kono is right. Knowing the identity of Steve's abductor isn't going to find Steve.

He's questioning some bar-tender in Kailua. A known informant. Who's gotten wind of a shipment coming in.

Returning to his car, he looks to the mountains.

He can't concentrate on this case – no matter how much the Governor breaths down his neck. His head is going over plans, routes, for tonight's search along Oahu trails. Even, the weekend's search. He'll have to forgo his time with Grace again and he misses the kid. How long can he keep this up for? How long? And he knows that each passing day increases the odds that they're going to find a decaying corpse. And not Steve, alive. Or that some hiker in five years time, is going to come across some skeleton. With a perfect denture match to Steve's...

He won't let that happen. He won't let Steve be filed away as yet another unsolved crime...

Another day and they're in the middle of a gun heist. A shoot out. The works.

The only thing missing is the legendary Hawaiian sunshine.

They have instead a legendary Hawaiian thunderstorm.

The only thing missing is... Steve. Steve, performing one of his heroic rolls across the bonnet of a car with gun a-blazing, oblivious to being drenched and soaked through.

Everywhere Danny looks there's always reminders of Steve. He sees the same sense of loss in the eyes of Kono and Chin when they glance across to Steve's empty office.

The most painful thing is fending off the Governor, now insistent that Danny finds another team member to replace Steve. Jenna is just fine with the investigative paperwork side. Great at accessing files they'd never dream of looking into. And she's gutsy. But... and he hopes he's not being sexist here, but... and he hopes he doesn't mark Steve down as being shallow and macho because damn he has so many other attributes... but... they need a gun-toting male variety. They need Steve...

They need Steve to be with them and not lost somewhere in some monsoon.

Certainly, Steve should be here. This had been his operation right from the start.

They're mopping up.

Literally, when he gets home... he'll need to change his pants and empty his shoes. He's been loaned a HPD jacket but it only keeps out so much. His hair needs major work.

The weather matches their spirits though the operation is notched up as a success. Danny's helping one injured complaining miscreant through the pelting rain and puddles to a waiting medic and ambulance.

"You. You sit there and be thankful. I'm cold. I'm wet. I'm on the point of drowning standing-up. I do not need to listen to an ungrate." When he notices Chin beckoning him and Kono from a door-way.

A call from Duke at HPD.

He runs over, hunching his shoulders against the tempest to punish all iniquities, and all three huddle together, sheltering from the rain.

A veritable waterfall shoots down in sheets from the roof above, noisy as it hits the ground. Thunder bangs loud overhead. Kono wipes back stray wisps of sodden hair and droplets off long lashes. Its clumsy – her waterproof jacket is too long in the sleeve and she tries turning back the cuffs with cold wet fingers. They feel miserable enough already without this kind of news.

Another sighting of Matt Pierson. Seen at a craft and hobby shop. Only half a mile away from where they now stand.

"So, what did our guy purchase, this time?" asks Danny.

"Officers say funnel and tubing from the wine and beer making department," answers Chin.

"Well, that's nice, he's has a hobby," Danny says flippantly. And checks himself when he sees both Chin's and Kono's look. Then, his mind starts conjuring up another form of torture.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, you're kidding me. It has to be a mistake," he insists, trying to put the image away. But he's shown camera footage from the store and it isn't.

The torrential rain that's hitting this side of the city the hardest, popping out manhole covers, and whipping palms to a frenzy, cleared the streets, so the lone parked Wrangler got noticed. But the same downpour loses him in the poor visibility and no street cameras or blue and white, pick him up again.

They get no lucky breaks.

Danny feels he'll have a heart attack soon.

-H5O-

Pierson uses the prod alone now – and that only three or four times in a... 'session'. Anything else... fists... does Steve too much damage. He doesn't even take the trouble to haul Steve out of the cage.

He doesn't even ask the question.

And Steve is back to trying to figure out whether this is revenge or ever about the name? Does Pierson himself even know? Unstable, Steve assesses again. Or things have got complicated by the drugs. He's taking more heroin than Steve.

But then... Steve's confused mind isn't so much better.

The pain, the drugs, the humidity, his breathlessness, weakness, the nausea, the cramping of his empty stomach, lack of oxygen – he knows and lists the detail - means he sees the world dazed, in a stupor. He knows he's in the clearing still. But his world has compressed into a singularity of thought – he must survive, somehow – and all else is blurred and unimportant. Nothing else is real anymore.

He's permitted to sleep more – Pierson's paces the clearing, sometimes hacking down the vegetation that's grown tall again, talking to his imaginary tormentor.

'Don't... don't... I didn't... I didn't... it was a joke... I was just palling around... I didn't know... why... give me the name.'

But Steve waking moments become his nightmares...

_...Agony hanging there suspended by his wrists. _

_His skin... his muscles... stretched... stretched so much... he's going to split open... he's going to peel right open... and the prod burns and burns... the memory of the bliss of the drugs..._

_He understands completely what Pierson is doing now... if he passes out... Pierson wakes him... Sometimes Pierson doesn't even bother to cut him down... just gives him the heroin right where he is..._

'_You want this now? You want this?' says Pierson._

_And he moans that he doesn't and tells Pierson to fuck off but his body craves to be taken from this. A part of him, he knows, begs for the drug._

'_You're only human. You're only human,' says Danno. _

_Re-assurance in his friend's echoing voice..._

Pierson's voice coming out of the sunshine that blinds.

"You're doing fine, Stevie. Just fine. You won't forget, will you? You won't forget that I treat you nice...They used to make me do _it_ for six of them... their Yankee ass, they called me. But I'm not after that, you know? I just want that name, Stevie."

"Not... going... to happen..."

"We'll see. We'll see. A guy can always change his mind. I'll take care of you, you'll see," and he gives Steve more of the drug.

"Not this... not this way... not the way to do things...You care... then...you've got to... get me to a hospital, man..."

It's afternoon. The sun is over the trees. He's chained in his cage. Slumped in a corner. Oblivious to the mesh cutting into his skin. Sinking into the effects of the drug... all too aware... the pain is worsening or the drugs aren't having that much of an effect. Or both.

He remembers detail somewhere... that's how the addiction gets you... you want the euphoria of that first hit... but it never comes... downhill from there...

He hates the nausea the drug creates but he's getting used to it... and idly scratches an itch – a sore already red and raw... but he doesn't care... and watches dazed, as it bleeds.

Pierson aims at the hawk... fires... misses and Steve laughs inside his head... the bird escapes minus a few feathers... funny... then he coughs around the tube... but Pierson is back there, soothing him... rubbing, stroking his arm and that's nice...

_What's your favourite colour, Pierson?_

Steve giggles, and promptly gags at the tube. His whole rib cage convulsing.

Pierson hushes him. Soothes him. Strokes him. Brings him back into his safe world.

He's feels doubly... trebly nauseous now. The pain, the heroin and the tubing...

Pierson is force-feeding him.

Makeshift tubing snakes down through the back of his nose to his stomach. Pierson's has been trained with enough medical experience to do that. He's thinned the baby food with water. He's done this three times now. He says he's increased the dose of the drug. It calms Steve down, relaxes him so he can take the food, keep it down until it's digested. It's risking an OD but Pierson explains, feeding him this way is keeping him alive.

Pierson is a real friend.

In his mind, he hears Danny saying that.

'_Steve, you're a real friend.'_

Danno can be sarcastic too, when he says that.

And Mary.

Chin says it and he means it. He's an... his mind searches for the word... _earnest._

'_Seriously? No one uses that word now,' says Danno._

'_No. 'Strue. Chin is an earnest sort of guy.'_

Kono doesn't say, _'you're a real friend.' _Because that would be a pass. And Steve suppresses the urge to laugh at that.

He thinks of the things that Catherine would say. It hurts to remember. And that's with the drug taking the edge off the hardest of emotions.

But Danno sometimes says, _'you're a real friend.'_ And means it...

He'll miss them...

He's dying. He accepts that with calm. Hopes it not down to the drug.

He's dying.

Too weak. Too thin. He sees it in detail. The length of his arm studded with the scabs of needle holes. Raised veins. Bones that protrude at his wrist , elbows and knuckles... delicate... delicate... intricate... a leaf pokes through his cage... close to his face... detail... detail... raised veins on the leaf... delicate... a thin, thin, thin skeleton...

He's itchy again and has to tuck his hands into his armpits to prevent himself from scratching...

When... suddenly...

The hawk settles on the cage... so still... so perfect... Steve gazes... fascinated... drug induced dream, he can't tell... it seems so real... he daren't breath or blink... he might scare the bird away... he hopes Pierson doesn't try and shoot at it again.

Steve had chosen himself a code name for Ghosthawk. They all did. To give no clue to their true identity.

'_lo._

Hawk.

And in the banter of the mess-room that had gone from Lolo, to Lulu.

From the place of his birth. It became a hated pet-name. Never would he let Danny find that out. Not in a million years. After Ghosthawk, it was dropped. He gained respect after Ghosthawk. He earned respect due to the death of other men... wrong... wrong...

'_Team Leader Hawk! Team Leader Hawk!' _

_The noise startles him as it comes over the radio. Commander Jordan has just died in his arms. The call is now for him. And they're supposed to be maintaining radio silence except for emergencies. This is an emergency. _

'_Team Leader Hawk_! _Under fire! We've lost Matt. Matt and Jonesy! Repeat! Under fire! My God, my God, I've lost Matt!'_

_Shock and horror in the voice... _

Detail. The book he owned as a boy says that hawks prefer the more rugged open ground of the mountains and not this close rainforest.

Then it was lost?

You and me, both. You and me, both.

_...The path through knee-high grass, climbs steeply. His father's footsteps in front show the way. The hawks would lift up, tracking the thermals. His father is talking of 'aumakua - spirits of the Hawaiian families, spirits of the ancestors, that take animal form. He's guessing that, since he's not native Hawaiian, he wouldn't have one, but he imagines the hawk is the McGarretts' all the same, guiding them both to safety, away from treacherous falls – his father is always telling him to be careful. _

_Fondness in his father's voice._

'_You like the hawks, Champ?'_

_You never call me Champ..._

' _Hawks. Free to roam, huh? Like us? Just them, you and me. The whole place to ourselves...'_

_And Steve's father smiles appreciatively. He loves to remember his father smiling at the hills and not grief stricken at the death of his wife. _

He feels sick again and chokes.

The bird takes flight, startled but settles in a nearby tree top, sending a cascade of water-droplets from leaves and branches into the clearing. It rained heavy an hour or so ago. A thunderstorm that banged and smashed the sky overhead, depleting to a soft, warm drizzle. Steve squints. The bird's black in the misty treetops.

He's suddenly aware how cold he is. He's soon shivering and coughs follow that are hollow.

He's dying.

' _Know how proud I am of you son. And that I love you. Remember that always,'_ says his father's voice.

But he's dying.

'_I'm proud of you. Don't let this beat you... Think of what you could achieve if you live... live Steve... Do what it takes to live. Anything else is plain stubborn.'_

The hawk blinks at him. _'Tell Pierson what he wants to know.'_

'_You want me to give in?'_

'_If it keeps you alive, yeah.'_

'_But you... Victor Hesse murdered you for a whole lot less.'_

'_I left you free. Free of the choice. Set you free from the cage of obligation. This is... dying...'_

'_I want to be free. But I don't want to give in. I'll tell him, but he'll kill me.'_

He's dying. He doesn't know who's saying these words...

'_Don't be weak! Don't be weak! Don't give in!'_ Words scream at him from some empty place, demented. He raises a hand and wipes his forehead. Closes his eyes tight. Finding his own voice.

'_I have...'_

'_What?'_ Asks Pierson in his head. _'Principles? Principles are going to get you dead.'_

Detail. One thing follows another. Procedure. Push feelings aside. You don't feel. You don't think. You follow the rules and they are the right rules. They are black and white rules. There is never any grey. There is never any choice. There is never any indecision. You just do it. Right and wrong. Nothing in between.

But this is going to kill him. And what is right or wrong about any of that?

And Pierson has left the cage door open. Forgotten. And he's crawling to Pierson. Begging Pierson for more of the drug.

No. No. He isn't. He isn't doing that.

He wants the drug. He wants the drug to drive away the noise and the confusion. How could he have gotten this low so quickly?

'_You're only human,'_ _says Danno._

'_I'm trained,'_ he thinks. _'I'm trained.'_

"Please don't give me anymore. You're going to kill me."

And he collapses.

"Tell me what I want to know!"

He curls to his side. It all hurts. Tries to find Pierson. Sees nothing but the blue blue of a big sky. "I'll... tell... you but you... need to get me... to a hospital."

Fact. Reality. He can't hold out any longer.

He sees the face in the dark. The fear on the man's face.

'_I had to leave my own goddamned brother behind!' _

But the fear wasn't that kind of fear. It's the kind of fear that doesn't want to be caught out. Steve knows that now. Can't comprehend how he didn't know it before. Older, wiser. No longer caught up in the military situation where he had to think fast, move fast, act fast and get them all out of there safely and not lose anymore men. And at the briefing, Luke Pierson's grief over the death of his brother had seemed so convincing.

Steve had gotten it wrong.

"I'll tell you the name," he stutters out, weakly raising his head above the green, above the wet earth. "It was your brother. He... wanted you dead. You... pissed him off over his girl-friend. He planned the whole thing."

Pierson's rage is instant.

"No! No! You're lying! My brother would never have done that! It was a joke! I never meant anything by it!"

"You've known... it was Luke... all along."

"It's a lie! It's a lie! You're just trying to save your own hide!"

"You... don't want to... know the truth. Won't face-"

"Liar! Liar! You fucking low-life! You think you know everything! Fucking Seals! Fucking, fucking Seals."

Wrong to tell you. Wrong. Wrong. Right to protect you from the truth. Wrong to leave you behind. Wrong to believe your brother.

But he doesn't know if he said it as the blows hammer down.

No.

No.

I made a mistake.

Please.

Please.

Forgive me.

-H5O-


	8. Chapter 8

A/N Thanks again for reviews, alerts and favs! Special thanks to wcfan who's pointed out a few spelling errors that have been corrected! Silly me!

Less of Steve in this chapter - but he's always the centre of attention...

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><p><span>Chapter Eight<span>

The sidewalks to the beach of Waikiki are unusually busy with pedestrians – up to ten deep in places, overflowing onto the road, slowing traffic to a crawl. Another one of those "Sunset on the Beach" nights – Danny had seen the advertising billboards - some premiere for a TV show, and already the fans are staking out their claims to the best spots to see the object of their heart's desire. They'll have barbecues, and fireworks later.

But the carnival atmosphere grates on Danny's mood. He's tired. Traffic slows ahead and he jabs the window button, irritated, leaning out an elbow, hoping the change of air might blow away the proverbial thick dusty cobwebs that string across his brain cells. He wipes a hand across his face. He'd been up till 2.30 a.m. the night before. That made two hours sleep. Over twelve hours ago.

"Not enough, Danny, to be beautiful," he murmurs.

Despite the hour, the sun is beating down, glaring off harsh white concrete. He's squinting badly, even though he's wearing shades. So much so his eyes are watering. Fatigue.

He nearly doesn't react in time -

- stops hard to avoid hitting two party-goers decked out with the obligatory Leila, who break out to cross the road immediately in front. They wave all friendly-like and he waves back, half-heartedly, as they shout and laugh out their one Hawaiian word, 'Aloha'. Another group of five or six giggling females take advantage of the gap in the traffic and leg it across the road too. And they not only giggle 'aloha' but 'mahalo', too.

Which is nice.

"Yeah, yeah, like you have a PhD in fluent Hawaiian," he mutters under his breath behind the fingers of his right hand as he drums impatiently on the wheel with the other, waiting for the road to clear.

His phone sounds and he presses the speaker, having glanced down at the small screen. It's Chin. Who speaks with no intro. It's urgent.

"We have him. Spotted on the intersection of Auahi Street and Ward Avenue."

That's all Danny needs to know and he's spinning the car round, scattering a few movie goers from the sidewalk, squealing the tyres, sending off toxic fumes of rubber – he checks his rear-view mirror - well... the stunt must have been better than anything they're about to see on screen, judging by the applause and approval from the guys.

"How?" he's yelling at Chin, as he ups the gears.

"Apparently, Pierson took on a dealer. In front of a crowd. Tried to slit his throat."

Ouch, winces Danny – and that old concern for Steve returns with a vengeance.

"He then fired off a few shots at the two officers who tried to arrest him."

_Unstable. _

Danny's jumping lights and he soon has a blue and white on his tail.

Make that three suddenly.

He hopes that's down to Chin passing on the amber alert call to HPD and not that they're trying to notch up their speeding fine quota for the month.

But Danny's uneasy - it's wise to go for this guy so heavy-handed?

_A cornered animal. Scared._

"Update!" he shouts above the engine noise and the sound of sirens. Thankfully, he's now reached a district where there's less people on foot and the road is more open, heading for the docks. Buildings flash past. Office blocks. Low life burger bars and coffee shops and small hotels that offer services to a passing sailor or dockhand. Second-hand and discount stores, all lit blue by patrol car-lights. Not the tourist frequent. But Danny gets to work in the area - a lot.

"He's left his vehicle and is running!" confirms Kono on the radio, who must have tuned into the police frequency. "On foot, pursued by four officers. Heading for Koa Shipping!"

Danny's direction. Only a block away and he makes the sharp right turn that takes him into a deserted side street. Kono's car and two blue and white's are parked up on the right, alongside the abandoned Jeep – correction – the _wrecked _Jeep. The two front wheels have mounted the kerb and the bumper is smashed up against a wall, the engine still smoking. The doors of all four vehicles are left wide-open. No sign of occupants.

Again, he's fearful that they're going to blow this. Too many cops to take Pierson down. It's overkill. No pun intended.

"Jeez! Will someone tell them please that we need him alive! No shooting! Repeat! No shooting unless they have to!" he hollers into his phone as he comes to a halt on the left – west-side. He escapes the Camaro, tucking away his phone. Then, freeing off his gun from its holster, he runs round to the trunk.

He thinks he has no time to put on his flak jacket. He knows that if Steve were here, he'd get that familiar frown. The one that tells him he always has that time, that minute – and he won't if he's dead.

"Who are you? My conscience?" he mutters under his breath.

But seriously he hasn't the time. The three HPD cars squeal to a halt behind him, spilling out officers, guns at ready, blue light flashings. The din from the sirens is horrendous. He wishes it were different. He wishes they didn't have to spook their man quite like this. He signals two officers over to the other side of the street, the other four he waves back to search the main road in case their man is getting himself through buildings and back tracking.

He has no idea of the positions of those officers already on the ground. He assumes they're up ahead with Kono and Chin.

He's up against a wall, moving fast, picking out his cover, pausing for seconds only. Wary, cautious. Double wary, double cautious, when they have to circumnavigate a stationary truck parked close to a shuttered roller-door.

Up ahead is a T junction with utility lanes going off in either direction.

He's hesitates and signals to the others to stop.

The last of the evening sun dips suddenly leaving the street in a dusky gloom. He's so sticky – it's been another record-breaking hot day - tension - his gun slips in his hands but no way is he going to loosen his grip. If he eye-balls his man, he needs to take him down with a leg wound. But all the amount of target practice won't always guarantee that sort of precision. Even Steve with his Ninja sniper training can't always pull that one off.

He nods to Kono who emerges slowly with another couple of officers from a fire exit up ahead to the right. She shakes her head. They've checked the building along with Chin who appears at the top of a flight of fire steps, two storeys up.

He's another Team member who shakes their head. But Chin's scanning the neighbourhood. From his vantage point, he has a full view of the area, east, west and north of the junction. Roof tops. The alley to his right... He tenses. Chin's seen something and leans over the railings – then - he throws himself back, flat against the wall, furiously pointing to this right-hand alley.

They all quickly move forward, Danny never taking his eyes off Chin overhead. Chin's aiming with his Super Shorty from his doorway but doesn't fire. Tracking? Or Pierson is hiding out of his range?

Kono has made the corner first, but her sight - and Danny's - is obscured by heavy duty dumps.

Danny and his two cops make a break to the far side. The distance is nothing but he's breathless. He still can't see any movement – just the stupid overflowing dumps and a locked gate and fencing beyond. If their guy is there, then at least he's trapped.

He raises his eyebrows to Chin, high above.

A silent question.

'You sure?'

He wants to yell, 'Not a cat?' Because knowing their luck, that's all the tax payers money is being wasted on at this present time. Chasing after a stray mog.

But Chin nods grimly.

Suddenly-

- Pierson is up.

A dark figure throwing off his cover of old cardboard cartons, and heaving himself high over the wire fence.

"Don't shoot! No one shoots!" bawls Danny, as he takes a flying leap and hauls himself up too – without even freaking letting go of his gun. Steve would be proud.

But it's risky. And Kono is shouting out his name from her cover behind the dumps.

And he knows she's right as bullets ricochet and spark off the wire. One grazes his knuckles – he lands heavy and -

- _there goes his knee-_

The pain blinds him and he wonders for a minute if he's been actually been shot. A quick check and there's no blood-

He curls over, perilously aware of his lack of cover- though cops are giving him covering fire - shots zip over his head. He chances a glance up. There's more cops coming down from the other end of the alley.

"Don't shoot!" he's screaming again. Though Pierson is popping off his own shots left and right from a doorway.

Only fifteen feet away.

Another quick glance from his cowering position down on the ground – and he sees the desperation on Pierson's face.

But Danny's forced to duck down – there's nothing else he can do except pray that soon Pierson will run out of ammo – wood splinters, masonry chips and a thousand more sparks from the fencing, rain down on him. And - thankfully, there's a lot of shouting from cops for Pierson to give himself up.

The noise eases off.

A silence of seconds.

And Danny dares to raise his head again...

"I didn't tell them anything!" yells Pierson. "I protected them! They wouldn't have gotten out if it weren't for me! Didn't care! No one cared! I took care of him! I tried to take care of him!" pleads Pierson. "And then he lied! He went and lied!"

Danny's up and running...

Limping...

The sound of his own strained voice surprises him.

"No. No. Don't do that. No. Please."

But it's too late.

A final shot rings out.

It's too late.

-H5O-

Kono is wide-eyed. Danny guesses she hasn't seen that many suicides. Half of Pierson's brains are a congealed mess on a wall. The rest pool out beneath his head. It's not the prettiest of sights. And Danny, fighting the pain in his knee could nearly admit to feeling nauseous. But then, no death is pretty.

Kono approaches the body to stand at Danny's side, her gun arm going slack. She stoops down to Pierson's body though there's no need to feel for a pulse.

One of the boys in blue is calling for Max's department. Other than that everyone is shocked silent. Kicking their feet in the dust. They're all thinking the same thing. They now have no way of finding Steve. Not unless the miraculous happened and Pierson freed Steve before he hit Honolulu again.

But it's feeling like Pierson, by putting a bullet into his own head, just executed Steve too.

Chin comes racing round the corner, quickly assessing the situation. He takes the scene in and then turns away with the futility of it all. Kono looks up from her kneeling position on the ground. She swallows hard to force out her voice. Her words are all shaky and broken. Desolate, her voice is scarcely a whisper.

"What do... you think... he meant? 'I tried... to care of him. And... then he lied.'?"

"I don't know, babe. I honestly don't know," says Danny.

The sound of distant sirens grows louder as reinforcements arrive. Cars scatter occupants to seal off the area and to allow access for forensics and the mop-up boys. Darkness has fallen fast and spotlights are set-up, sending out a glaring hostile white light.

It seems like the three of them are caught in a tabloid of slow motion as the world around them erupts into men shouting orders, car engines and noise.

All three look at the slumped body of Pierson. Mesmerised.

Kono wearily pulls herself up to her feet. To make way for forensic.

"Danny... He has... he has... blood on his hands? Not his? It's... it's dried..."

And the thought is chilling.

"He stabbed a dealer earlier," he provides.

Chin is suddenly interested and it's his turn to stoop down.

There's definitely blood on Pierson's hands. And grime and dirt. His nails are broken and what's left of them are encrusted with black dirt. Confirming he'd been sleeping outdoors.

"He only nicked the guy before running off. Not enough for..." Chin shakes his head, not wanting to believe what he's seeing. " There's bruising too. To the knuckles... Forensics-" But he can't finish. And he closes his eyes shut tight against the thought.

_Forensics will check it out... see if... the blood is Steve's. _

A guy who's already donned white gear is off-loading equipment from a van.

Chin recovers, straightens and waves him over to the west. "The Jeep's in the other street." The man nods.

Kono is more hopeful. Danny can see it in her eyes.

"Vegetation and mud in the tyre treads, yes."

And Danny cruelly kills that hope.

"Right. And that would narrow our search area down to, what? The whole freaking Oahu rainforest?"

And he's sorry he said that and tells her so, touching her arm.

But they're back to where they were forty minutes ago. A dead end.

And half the sky overhead, explodes with a thousand fireworks.

Fiesta time.

-H5O-

A soft noise.

Rustling. Soft rustling.

And the hawk settles soft on the top of the cage.

He guesses it's the hawk - he makes out the movement and colour but nothing focuses. No detail.

"Hey..." comes soft through cracked damaged lips. And they split and bleed more. Metallic in his mouth.

"Hey..." but the bird takes flight. And Steve's alone again.

But there's a voice there, somewhere, that prays he lives.

A cough racks through him. Shatters pain through every fibre of him, reminding him this is no nightmare, this is real pain. Reminding him, how difficult it is to even draw breath.

He has little idea of when he last woke. Sleep is fitful.

But the voice tells him he must live.

Inner voice.

Instinct to survive.

The hawk...

He's in the cage again, arm stretched through the hole and tied. With no memory of Pierson dragging him there. Or giving him heroin again.

'_Eat. Eat.'_ And it's Pierson again at his side.

No. No. Pierson left him hours... _days_ ago? He doesn't know when.

Pierson has finally left him to die? And this way. Not a bullet through the head.

Wrong to tell Pierson.

But a flutter of anger. Did he honestly deserve this? And then the return of a memory kills it...

'I'm sorry...'

He attempts again to get a hold of what day, hour it is.

Detail.

It feels like Pierson stopped feeding him long ago.

Moss. He tries to eat moss. And the young shoots of the fern that poke their way through the cage floor. But he vomits. And cramps add to the pain.

Some... some must reach his stomach.

_His father. _

_They walk to the mountains. Share a packed lunch prepared by his mother. Detail. The memory of his father's hand. Tanned. Veined. Like the talon of a hawk - offering him bread. And he feels his father's strength. _

His own hands are helpless. Wounded. Inflamed sores at the wrists.

The memory is a prompt. He remembers that it's rained - when? It rains all the time here. Hawaii. He might remember the inches. Or not. His brain can't remember that detail.

Drink. He has to drink. Survive.

But he can't reach and check for the pan.

Blades of rough grass. Pressed close to his face. Drops of silver along the fronds of fern. He doesn't even have to move.

Moistens his lips.

'_Live. Live,'_ says the hawk.

He coughs. He coughs and knows he's dying.

He's woken many times before and this is his routine.

Detail of a leaf come clear. Its veins... the water slipping along the green surface...

And each time it becomes harder. The will, the will... it's slipping from him...

'_Live, son,'_ says the hawk...

It's rained. He remembers the mist in the trees high above him where the hawk flies. The rain washes away the blood... But it makes him cold. And the cold doesn't numb the pain.

He shivers. Shudders. Can't seem to stop. Not the cold. Withdrawal from the drug. He's been given that much? To become addicted? He can't remember... he can't fucking remember... he can't fucking remember anything...

Cold turkey. Strain on the heart. That detail that comes back to him.

Flies buzz at his wounds... he peers at his stomach... he can feel them squirm... maggots... he can't move... a corpse already.

'_Live, live,'_ says the hawk

"Can't."

And the hawk settles again.

"Hey... hey... don't ... leave me..."

He can't see the detail of the hawk. In memory only. The hooked beak. Hooded black eyes. Soft, soft feathers. That he so longs to touch. To stroke. Expression of... centuries. Of knowledge, care, love, strength to survive.

'_Live, live,'_ says the hawk.

_And his father offers him his hand as they climb the mountains together. And his father again tells him the legend of the Aumakua._

'_Can we have one, Dad? Can ours be a hawk, Dad?'_

'_Nah, son, we're not Hawaiian. Though,' he considers, 'a hawk would be good. I'd be happy to come back as a hawk some day and take care of you.' And he fluffs his son's hair affectionately and walks on... lost in the mountain mist... and Steve follows in his footsteps through the long grass..._

-H5O-

It's one of those days that's spent at the Iolani Palace. Jenna's working at the centre table. Kono and Chin are each in their own office, catching up on reports.

Danny has a three o'clock with the Governor so he'd better get his paperwork straight. In his bestest handwriting. His spell-checker is soon going to spontaneously combust from overwork.

He still hasn't gotten leads on another rumoured gun deal. Oh yes, she says, sympathetic over Steve, but one eye is always on the arrests data.

And Matt Pierson doesn't count. He's some lonely guy who had no impact on local crime figures.

So Danny's resigned to be sent to the corner and having to put his hands on his head.

Quite honestly though, he wouldn't mind getting demoted to traffic. He'd get more time to go looking for Steve. He'd get more time with Grace. And she's being her usual angel-self and is so understanding and doesn't let on to her mother that sometimes they don't go to the park or feed dolphins or take in a movie but simply drive the trails of Oahu with Uncle Chin.

His knee throbs painfully and he massages it under the desk. He'll have to see the doc later and he guesses he'll be back to using his cane. He thinks that girls like to nurse an injured guy - the thought is inappropriate, given the circumstances - but he still remembers Steve telling him so.

'_What are you? Oversexed or something?' The sparkle of a tease in the blue eyes of the Lt. Commander. _

'_Ah ah, now you stop right there-'_

'_Right here? You mean here?' And Steve is pointing down to the ground with two thumbs. _

'_Yes. Yes. You stop right there. You wipe that grin off your face. I can see what you're trying to do. You're trying to draw me out on my sexual recreational activities.'_

'_Your non-existent sex life, you mean.' _

'_There is nothing wrong with my sex life. I am a normal fully functioning male specimen-' _

'_Who has to gain sympathy from the opposite sex by making out he's in pain.' _

'_Making out? Pretending? You say I'm pretending?' He's aware his voice has risen an octave in indignation and coughs. 'Pretending? Right. Touch me there.'_

'_There?' And Steve approaches his chair, hesitant about touching his leg._

'_Yeah, there, right there.'_

'_Sure?'_

'_Yes, I'm sure.'_

_And Steve twists a mean fist into his thigh. _

'_Ow!' That makes him jerk and he pushes Steve away. 'Ow! See! Proof! It hurts. It is not a show. And you, McGarrett, fail to understand females. Unlike you, they are naturally inclined to sympathy. And that's a fact.'_

'_Fact,' says Steve, still smiling, his arms folded._

'_Yes. Fact.'_

'_So you did your knee in on purpose.'_

He was never going to win... and he'd be happy to lose a hundred times over, just to have that conversation again.

That... that was just so... just so sentimental, Danno. Did he just think that?

But fact.

He glances up to look over to Kono and Chin through the glass partition. He doubts the other two can concentrate either. It's like they're in all mourning - for a funeral that never was.

And he can hear Steve saying: _ 'Look, you don't mourn. None of you. You hear. None of you are to mourn me?'_

Danny remembers updating Mary about Pierson the night before.

'So what now?' she says. 'Is it time to mourn now? I open his will? I don't feel ready. I can't lose all three members of my family, Danny. What do I do? I have to continue looking. I can't give up just because this Pierson guy is dead.'

She'd gazed out the window, holding her arms tight around her. Gazed out to sea. 'He'd say though... you don't mourn me. He'd say that, wouldn't he?'

Danny's breaks the memory seeing Jenna taking the call they've all been expecting. She's beckoning the team into the bull-pen with a sudden sense of urgency, pressing her phone close to her ear, fingers busy on the table-top, bringing up multiple screens.

A dozen close-ups of Pierson's jeep.

Tyre treads.

And they're crowding round the table as she puts Charlie Fong on speaker.

"Can you run through from the beginning? Repeat everything you've told me?"

"Danny. Chin. Kono. Hi. We can positively confirm that the Jeep was used at some point to carry Steve in the back of the vehicle. We found one hair with his DNA. But we got luckier than that... sorry... lucky was probably the wrong word... Any school-boy knows that Hawaiian soil is volcanic but what they might not know is that lava flows over the centuries leave a unique fingerprint of soil types that can vary over distances, of say, only a hundred metres. Various research studies over the years have taken samples and we now have maps out–lining the varying sulphur deposits made by lava flows."

And those various maps flip up across the table-top, overlaying the tyre pictures.

"Such a study carried out in 1969,"

-and one is highlighted, and brought up in amazing techno-colour-

"identified soil that is a perfect match for the soil found in treads of your Wrangler. I'm sending over the location now."

A Google map now appears. And Charlie is obliging and a yellow outline marks a section to the north-east of Honolulu. South of Hauula. East of Punaluu. It takes in five trails threading through dense rainforest.

"Then... he _is_ in the mountains," murmurs Chin.

"Just because the Jeep went to these places," says Danny, waving a hand vaguely over the table, "doesn't mean that Steve is concealed there."

He can't hope... he can't ever begin to hope... Not after three weeks of disappointments and dead-ends.

Literal dead-ends, when he's - or the others – been forced to turn back when trails became impassable – dense vegetation, the trail becoming too narrow to take a vehicle, erosion due to rain, rock fall.

He turns away from the table, easing off the migraine that's building. He can't begin to hope... Don't the others feel this way too?

"We might be able to narrow the search area down more," assures the voice of Fong. "There are a dozen plant varieties, seeds, leaf segments also contained in the retrieved soil samples from the treads. But it's going to take time to correlate that information. It'll probably do nothing more than confirm that this is the area you should be searching for Commander McGarrett."

They thank him. Quietly. As if unable to comprehend what exactly they'd been told. He says they're welcome, wishes them luck and signs off.

"Luck," says Chin simply.

"Luck, yeah, how about that," agrees Danny. "Don't breath, we might break it." But he exhales long and slow all the same. He hadn't realized how much he'd been holding his breath throughout Fong's explanation.

"Five trails," says Kono, studying the map, "it's still going to be a massive area in all those trees."

"Those two there... already searched them. I had to turn back – heavy rain," he admits bitterly. "I was so damn close."

"You did your best," insists Kono.

"And it's not you who did wrong here, it was Pierson," says Chin.

He sighs. "We need an army."

Chin is now stirred to action. "We no longer have to worry about Pierson objecting to choppers. We'll saturate the area with Teams – we'll find him this time, Danny." And both he and Jenna are on their phones to start up search and rescue.

Grifferson for Navy Seals. HPD for police. Medevac on stand-by.

"Choppers will be up in five minutes," confirms Chin.

And Jenna surprises them all. "You mentioned army. I have a contact."

"You mean you have a boyfriend," Danny says, trying to be light-hearted but far from feeling it, trying to draw her out.

She smiles crookedly and they can't tell.

"They'll send you three jeeps with teams to assist." And she's dialling again. "We'll get people up each trail and spread out. I'll co-ordinate from here."

She's good. She knows they need her so they can focus.

"Sounds like a plan," he says and he's jogging after the others, calling back to her. "And try out those negotiation skills on the Governor for me will ya? I'm not going to make that 3 o'clock."

And Jenna smirks back at him.

No one, though, feels even remotely that happy.

-H5O-

In under an hour, Danny's changed into jungly gear, has swopped the Camaro for his hire truck and is meeting up with the others in a corner of a car lot in Hauula.

One army Jeep is already there. Four beefy soldiers are gathered round its front, examining maps spread over the hood, held down in the stiff breeze blowing off the sea.

A HPD chopper and a Navy chopper are both seen hovering over the lower slopes of the rainforest that climbs lush and green half a mile to the west. They're drawing a crowd. Two HPD officers are kept busy holding back sight-seers who point and hold up phones to take pictures.

One soldier looks over as Danny joins up with Kono and Chin, and, breaking away from the group, he offers out his hand and introduces himself as Sergeant Schwartz, inviting them to the circle at the Jeep to update them.

"I've already sent off two search parties along these two routes, here and here." And he points to the military map. "One trail has been ruled out immediately - eroded by heavy rains. No one can get through there. The choppers have made passes left and right and are convinced there's no sign of anything. If we draw blanks on these other trails, I'll send men in on foot. That ok?"

Naturally they nod. Grateful for the assistance. Grateful too, that some of the pressure of finding Steve has at last been shared and taken off their shoulders.

"I suggest, we take both your truck and the jeep up on this trail," and he's highlighting a line with a pen. "It forks off after a mile and we can split up?"

"That means passing through the edge of the military testing area?" queries Chin. "Surely it's fenced off?"

Schwartz nods. "Your HPD chopper has just reported the fence has been cut. It could have been hikers. This used to be open to the public. Sometimes they insist on their rights. Well, if they want their heads blown off..." He's folding up his maps. "Don't worry-" he must have seen the look of concern on Danny's face, "you're safe today. We've had no testing for the last month. And this trail is in the buffer zone anyhow. Be a damn good place to hide though."

The soldiers are hauling themselves into the Jeep – the signal for Danny, Chin and Kono to hurry over to the truck. But Kono's hesitates before climbing up.

"What's up, coz?" asks Chin, about to follow her in.

She shakes her head. "Nothing." And she takes the middle seat, slumping back as Danny and Chin take their places either side of her.

"Nothing?"

She shakes her head again. Checking Danny, as he starts the motor. Uncertain whether she should admit to what she's about to say.

"I'm not sure... We just don't know what we're going to find." She's leaving them to fill in the gaps.

A part of her just doesn't want to do this.

And Danny understands that completely. And he imagines, by the way that Chin looks out of his passenger window, that he understands completely too. The last time they saw Steve alive, he was in bad shape and that was over a week ago. Danny wants this to be over so badly. Finally, finally over – for Steve's sake as well as his own - but then... in a terrible contradiction – he'd rather not know the awful truth – if it turns out to be – _the awful truth_...

Chin's strong. Finds some reserves. He turns back and pats Kono's hand. "I know. But we're all in this together, Coz. Ok?"

She grips his hand tight and nods back, staring ahead. Resolute.

Twenty minutes later, Danny, Chin and Kono are following the army jeep, testing the springs on his hired truck to their fullest, along a track that feeds its way among tall overhanging palm fronds and twisted branches of the strawberry tree – well, that's what he's been told they are – that scratch at the paintwork and threaten to shatter the windshield.

He's going to lose his deposit.

There's no evidence of recent traffic – overnight rain has washed that away - but at least there _is_ a track that winds round the contours of a steep ascent. The climb is so questionable from a safety point of view, however, that two army guys are out of their vehicle acing as scouts and going ahead on foot.

Progress for an impatient Danny is painfully slow.

The soldiers are also checking out gaps in the foliage as they pass – to see if any human had accessed the track from the sides in the last day or so, looking for tell-tale signs – broken branches – a footprint... if they're lucky – that word again.

Once, all the Jeep occupants have to hop out, and dig away at a mud slide to allow them to proceed further.

The three are glad for a respite and take the chance to stretch limbs and take on water. The latter is mandatory in the heat. Even Kono has damp patches on her vest top. It's too hot for the jog pants Danny wears. But he was told you have to keep covered up. Bugs. Danny swots one. He has a complaint on his lips but he holds it in check. The thought that Steve has been through worse than this...

But he really does want to know, however, what anyone sees in Hawaii. This forest is not a thing of beauty. It can kill a man.

Minutes later and Schwartz heads back to them.

"Thought you might want to know... there's signs the road's been cleared out at least a couple of times lately."

"Thanks," and Danny swops glances with the other two, "Yeah, thanks," he says weakly. The further they go, the more difficult it's becoming. They should be hopeful. But they're absolutely not.

Another twenty minutes further, and they reach the high security perimeter fence, topped with barbed wire and dotted with military warning notices. Once, this had been the end of the road but the two scouts are ruefully examining a cut section of the fence before folding the wire back, allowing them access and beckoning them on.

Overhead, as they make their way deeper into the jungle – Danny refuses to accept its category as a rainforest - everything thickens and darkens and Hollywood will soon be casting them all in horror movie, it's getting that creepy.

They even have a bird of prey for company - some hawk swooping down at them so close, its plaintive chilling cry is heard even over the engines of the two vehicles.

There's no conversation.

Occasionally, the radio cackles into action as the other army patrols make contact with one another.

Occasionally, a chopper is seen at tree-top, swinging, veering and then is lost from view as it takes in another half mile stretch of forest. The feeling is... the chopper should have spotted something by now. The pilot radios and says they're going to extend the grid search two miles further over to the east. And then they're calling it a day – dusk is under an hour away.

They hit the fork in the track and separate, Schwarz's team leaving by warning them not take a tumble in the near-by waterfall. It's condescension of the highest order but they have to live with it.

And it's now down to them, to check every passing bush, shrub, green thing for recent disturbance. It all looks the same to Danny's untrained eye and he guesses that's partly why their past nightly vigils into the forest came up with nothing.

He takes the wheel and leaves it to Chin and Kono to walk either side of the vehicle, immediately in front. In places, the erosion is so bad, that channels are some eighteen inches deep - he needs all the guidance he can get.

This is slow work and goes on for another half-hour when Chin pauses and looks up. The hawk is high over their heads, just to their right.

Danny brings the truck to a halt beside him, speaking through the lowered window. "So go on, tell me what it is. You know you want to. A lesser spotted whatever, huh?"

Chin shakes his head, with just a glimmer of a smile. And then he frowns. "It's come to me. Hawks aren't usually seen in the forest. They prefer open land. The nearest area of marsh is five miles north-west of here."

"He's lost then." And Danny takes another swig from his water-bottle. He's blunt but honestly, this isn't a bird-watching trip.

Kono, however, picks up on Chin's tone, and walks back a couple of yards to get a better view of the bird, hands screening her eyes to follow more closely.

"It seems to be hovering," she says.

"Even though we have a chopper in the vicinity, the bird doesn't fly off?" questions Chin.

"Perhaps it's protecting its young," says Danny. "That's what birds do, don't they?" Chin throws him a look. "Hey, I've watched National Geographic," Danny protests.

"That's what hawks do, granted. Or kill. They'll hunt but - they scavenge too. He might be trying to keep his eye on... dead meat."

_Dead meat._

Danny mouths the words. He's hardly believing he's hearing them. He's sure his heart stopped ticking for one beat.

He suddenly jettisons his bottle into the back of the truck and he's yelling "Go! Go! Go!" leaping out the driver's seat, leading the other two to crash through the jungle foliage.

Ten feet in and they stop suddenly –

Camouflage netting thrown under a bush. Chin stoops down, breathless, and examines the ground. Looks up.

"Tyre treads. This is where Pierson parked the Wrangler. Used the net to conceal it." And he points a couple of yards away, standing. "There. He's been covering the tracks." He swings round. "The camp's over in this direction."

Danny's running past him in an instant. Branches whip his face. Snag his ankles. This is irrational. This is so not New Jersey cop. This is doing permanent damage to his knee. A machete would be good. Who does he think he is, Indiana Jones? But he doesn't care.

He hits something of a path and that makes the going easier. Kono and Chin cut across to the path too and are close behind, urging him on.

He trips, and both Kono and Chin catch him, preventing him from face-planting. Gives them a pause for breath to check him over – he waves them on, impatient, panting – they all are - and Chin takes the lead... entering something of a clearing.

A tent to their left.

The cage to their right...

And inside is the body of a naked man, manacled to the mesh work.

-H5O-


	9. Chapter 9

A/N. I'm amazed by the response to Chapter 8! You guys are great!

Apologies for the delay in updating but I'm busy rewriting the ending to "Forgive Me", expanding what I thought was one inadequate chapter into three. I know there's nothing worse than breaks in reading but I hope it makes for a better story.

Apologies too for my obvious lack of medical know-how in Chapter Nine. I like to do research but the medical stuff just throws me. Please all you readers who are nurses etc, put my mistakes down to artistic licence – I really did try my best!

Where were we? Ah yes... "the body of a naked man, manacled to the mesh work."

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Nine<span>

Danny drops down in front of the cage. It hurts his knee but he doesn't especially care.

He can't hold the tears in check.

He's grown man and he can't hold his freaking tears back.

Chin turns and walks away, wrung-out by the sight before them. And Danny's aware of Kono rubbing the back of her hand across her face, stifling her own crying.

Flies swarm and crawl over both cage and body. Black and thick on half-open cracked lips lost in a beard of three weeks. Thankfully Steve's eyes are closed... His face is so swollen, bloody with abuse – 'smashed' is the only word that comes close to describing it - that Danny can hardly believe this is his friend in front of him. The tattoos are all but obscured by soiling, blood, injury, bruises, but they're all the identification they need...

The hawk swoops through the tree tops, agitated, squealing alarm and Danny looks up to the sky.

He wants to scream.

They're too damn late.

"You need to... you need to call this in, boss," says Kono. Choked.

"Wha?" He's dazed. Hasn't even noticed that she's gone round to the other side of the cage and is on her knees too.

He's been running the H5O office for the last nineteen days. He doesn't ever remember Kono calling him 'boss' the way that she's calling him 'boss' now. She's trying to ground him with procedure and protocol when, at this very moment, he can't even comprehend what a freaking cell phone is.

And he tries hard – he really does - to get his brain in gear – and something tells him, they shouldn't be kneeling here like this – disturbing the evidence of a crime scene.

"We need to get a team here. To..."

She doesn't finish. She can't finish. Kono's tried to get herself together and failed. She can't trust herself to speak.

She leans forward, pushing aside the vegetation, to access some hole on her side of the cage. She's being gentle. Perhaps it's only her who can do this with the reverence this deserves. A woman's touch. Though he doesn't understand what it is she's doing... examining something? All he can think about is that they're going to have to leave Steve here. Another homicide that has to be photographed and measured. Steve's going to be another homicide statistic. Just like his father.

"I doubt we'll get a signal in these trees," says Chin– he's like Kono, attempting to cover his emotion with practicality. In their hurry, they'd left behind the radio Schwarz had handed over before they'd split up. They'd been given flares too. And Chin's looking up to the sky as the HPD chopper comes into view, hovering, then disappearing, re-appearing again, as it makes a sweep of the area.

He says something that Danny doesn't quite catch in all the noise. Something about the chopper sending on a message?

The thrumming of the blades, the way it sends the tree-tops crazy is obtrusive on their mourning.

The hawk flaps in near-by branches, unsettled until the thumping recedes.

"Look," says Kono, and it sounds like her heart is broken all over again.

Steve's head is lying on his right shoulder and Kono, by moving aside leaves reveals his outstretched arm – a rope ties his wrist to a tree close-by – the arm with the tell tale line of black pinprick scabs along the veins. Then... Pierson _was_ forcibly giving Steve heroin.

Bastard.

"He's still warm..." She says softly.

And Danny wipes his face. He can't cry like this. But they were too damn late by a margin of hours?

"Danny!" And both he and Chin look at her sharply. "He's breathing! My God, he's breathing!"

He hadn't thought... they hadn't thought... Steve looked so dead. Even now, nothing disturbs the flies at Steve's mouth. She can be sure?

Kono's quickly untying the rope at Steve's wrist, desperately running fingers all over the sores there, up the length of his arm, and Danny's willing her to find that pulse. "I need to get close! Too much background..." She glances up to the sky - to the vibration, drum still heard from the HPD chopper.

"I'll get wire-cutters and that radio from the truck!" Chin shouts, already sprinting away. "See if you can get their attention!" Meaning the chopper. Meaning they can contact the Medevac chopper waiting, parked up at the base car park in Hauula.

And he's gone, disappearing off into the undergrowth.

And Danny is on his feet, waving madly upwards as the chopper swoops close again. Its downdraught scatters leaf debris, and he has to squint against the blast of air in his face to see that the pilot and the guy hanging out the open door have understood. He points to the cage. To Steve. A thumbs up and they're making the call through to Hauula. And the co-pilot signals back, ten minutes with spread fingers, before they fly out of the area to make way for Medevac.

Danny returns to Kono's side. Kono still holds Steve's limp hand in her own. As if... as if giving their unconscious boss some comfort.

He can hear it now. Hear it now, the shallow rasping breaths. And it's not his imagination. Steve's ribcage rises and falls. Slight. Struggling.

"God, what did that man do to him?" and she looks to the tent, the same horror that Danny feels reflected in her face.

Danny turns away, hands on hips. He honestly can't bear to look anymore.

And he's hating himself for not getting here sooner to prevent all this from ever happening...

And... he can't help it, he looks to Steve in spite of himself- but god, this is no peepshow - how could Pierson do this to another human being? Force them to endure all this.

The bruising yellow through to purple, along his limbs and rib cage. Cuts, gashes – and were those burns? Soiled dressings. And Steve was always thin – but now he's thinner. Bones, ribs, joints stick out in a way bones, ribs, joints really should not be sticking out.

'_I took care of him!'_ Pierson had said.

And this was his 'care'?

Chin returns and he's soon attacking the locks on the cage.

They'd been keys among Pierson's personal effects. They must have been keys to these very locks and they hadn't known...

He's half halfway through struggling just as the noise of the more powerful Medevac hits them and in seconds flat, it's overhead. A cable is lowered down and Danny stands, steadying it, trying to breathe and see straight as the chopper buffets the area into a frenzy of white trembling leaves and sunlight. Two Helper Guys appear at the very edge of the side hatch. One, gathering up a medic bag and attaching his gear to a clip, quickly launches himself down the cable.

It's all fast and really very impressively efficient but to Danny, it doesn't feel fast enough. He's willing the man to go faster. A litter is being lowered and the EMT, now on the ground, hands Danny his bag and grabbing hold of the cable for himself, he guides the litter down, before signalling that the chopper can pull off a couple of hundred yards, keeping the site undisturbed so their man can work.

Danny drops the bag beside the cage and helps the medic over with the litter.

And the medic's making a quick assessment as he pulls on latex gloves from the bag. Looking over Steve. Watching Chin finish cutting through the locks.

Chin has the cage open and throws aside a pan he finds at Steve's feet in disgust. There's no sign of anything that could have contained food and water.

"Can you work round me and cut through these chain locks too?" The medic asks Chin, kneeling down at the cage's front. "I mean to get him out of here in like, minus five minutes. That ok for you guys?"

He's having to re-assure them as well as bring Steve back from the nearly-dead.

"Can't say, I've ever had a rescue quite like this one. I'm Dean, by the way."

And he's running through checks, shooing away the flies, while they look on hardly daring to speak.

Or to hope.

Pulse. A firm touch at Steve's neck. And he's also feeling round the muscles of Steve's neck and shoulders. Briefly, over his skull. His gloves are now red and bloody. He rips open a packet from the bag's side-pocket and uses a sterile wipe before shooing away the flies again, easing open Steve's mouth, forcing lips to bleed, finger-feeling round for obstacles.

Satisfied with that, he untucks his stethoscope from his coveralls and listens to Steve's chest. His expression is just too too serious for Danny's liking. He rummages in the bag and whips out a BP cuff, fitting it close to Steve's left bicep, pumping it tight, still listening with the stethoscope.

And he's now running his hands over Steve's ribs. Left. Then right. He pauses over the dressing at the stomach, peers underneath and frowns, not liking what he's seeing.

And through all this Danny feels like he can't breathe. One check after another and he just knows Steve isn't scoring so high.

Chin needs to cut at the last wrist manacle.

"Cut out the sides of the cage, first," says Dean. "Let's get ourselves more room to work, huh? I don't know about you guys, but I've already had enough of this cage. Let's destroy it, huh? Detective Williams? Can you help with that? I don't want the Commander moved anymore than we have to."

And Danny's at Chin's side, holding one corner of the cage as Chin slices through each row of the mesh.

"Officer Kalakaua, isn't it? I need your help?" And Dean now has a bag valve mask in his hands that he lays on Steve's arm, while reaching over to prise open Steve's mouth again. He's pushes a tube down into Steve's throat, frowning again as he does so and attaches the mask, squeezing the bag a few times to get the air flowing.

"I don't know if you guys have ever done this in training?" He makes room for her – there isn't a lot. "But can you take this and do the same? There, that's right. Count five seconds and squeeze. Keep the mask held down tight with your other hand." And he guides her hand to the required position.

The bp cuff comes off and he's then busy extricating a medical collar from his bag.

Danny's heart heaves. He always associates these things with a broken back or neck. The medic sees his concern.

"A precaution... but he's badly injured, you understand? I'm detecting some swelling. " He deftly fits the collar, scarcely moving Steve's head, snugging it tight around Steve's neck.

"Since you found him, he's been this unresponsive?" This is asked of Danny. He can see what Dean is doing. Getting them all involved. To snap them out of that shock they're feeling.

Danny nods as a pen light comes out to check under those swollen lids. He waves a hand briefly over the darkened black puncture holes on Steve's right arm.

"He's been drugged?"

"We think it was heroin," explains Danny numbly.

"But nothing in the last twenty-four hours," adds Kono.

"He can't have OD'd then?" asks Danny.

"Can't say at this stage." The man shrugs. "He'll need tests, scanning. But I don't have to tell you, he's not good," says the medic, unwrapping a syringe.

A clatter that makes Danny start. As Chin releases the foot end of the cage suddenly. Chin throws them all an apologetic look before the two of them quickly move onto the second side.

The medic nudges his earphones to speak to his Other Helper Guy. "Patient needs immediate hospitalization – we're taking him to Queen's? -" he checks with the three of them first, before carrying on with his message. "He's unconscious – pupils – sluggish. Bp is 79 over 58. Breathing, slight but rapid. Twenty respirations a minute. Detecting heavy congestion to the lungs. Pulse slight, but rapid - 91 BPM. Elevated temperature. I'd say over 39C. I'll get more accurate readings on board. Have ready the monitor, saline and we'd better get him on full ventilation."

He's jabbing the needle in Steve's arm.

"Just a little of my magic juice to get this heart to slow. Don't want it straining itself do we?"

It's good, it's good he can joke at a time like this but...

"His heart beat is... fast?"

It feels illogical.

"Looking at that stomach wound, I'm suspecting the onset of sepsis. Like I said, tests will show."

The medic's hands briefly feel all over Steve's body, limbs, stomach as near as he can get – Steve still lays curled over. Spine.

Though Danny can't believe there's any part of Steve that isn't injured. Dean's reeling off just some of his discoveries to those on board the chopper. Danny phases out and only hears half, again asking – how can another human being to do this to another?

"... detecting swelling at lower abdomen, right shoulder... Severe infection at a stomach wound. Burns, minor."

A large pack is strapped to the side of his bag – that Dean unfolds – a thin blanket that he spreads over the litter ready to wrap Steve. He checks too that all harnesses are ready in place.

"You did fine, thanks," Dean says to Kono, taking over. Giving Danny and Chin to finally finish cutting wire and to pull away the cage's side and back. Another few seconds and the last wrist lock is released.

"Need your help again, folks! We're going to move him directly onto the litter. A gentle side shift? Not a lift? We need to minimize moving him? Ok Sam," to the chopper, "you can come in now." He quickly packs away the BVM and is up fast now, really fast and is expecting them to react fast too.

The chopper is hovering directly overhead and the noise is horrendous. It feels difficult to concentrate. Even more difficult to breath.

Dean positions Kono to the feet, Danny and Chin to either side, taking Steve's shoulders himself, steadying his head.

Danny's scared stiff of doing this. Like Steve might break like china in their hands.

"After three?" shouts the medic. "One. Two. Three."

And the four of them lift Steve to the stretcher, scarcely moving him from his curled over position. Though Dean straightens his legs slightly. Then Dean believes there's no spine or lower fractures? Danny's clueless about all this sort of thing.

But it hits Danny now how clammy Steve is to touch. How he can sense his buddy's body trembling in his hands. Then, he's coming round? At being disturbed? Then, this is good thing? Then, he'll make the flight to ER?

And this is sickening, in all those five seconds it takes to move Steve, he's pliant, malleable in their hands. Most definitely not the tornado of high octane energy that is Steve...

Dean's quickly strapping Steve in. The cable drops down from the chopper and the medic clips the litter to the litter harness and guides it upwards until it's out of his reach, up to his waiting companion at the helicopter door.

And Steve is soon gone to safety, into the belly of the chopper. Dean is clipping himself onto the cable again. They thank him patting him on the back and stand back as Dean is also hoisted up.

The chopper leans to one side as it circles off to the south-west.

And Danny reckons the rescue has taken less than ten agonizing minutes.

And in no time, it's silent with the beat of the chopper blades like a distant drum. This time there is no hearts sign. No relief that Steve is in good hands – though Danny is sure he is. They've found Steve but somehow this doesn't feel like the end...

They still won't know for sure whether Steve will be ok.

The wind rustles in the trees.

There's no sign of the hawk.

The tension just won't leave Danny.

Chin finds his voice first, coughing to clear his throat. "You want me to stay?" he asks. "I've radioed through to HPD. They're letting Mary know, and a crime scene team is on its way."

The case is solved but there's reports that need to be filed.

Though, this still might be a homicide...

"No." Danny shakes his head. His voice is too shaky. He's never known a time when he's had so little to say."Let's get out of here." He can't put any of them through that, staying here to wait for HPD to show when they'd rather be at the hospital.

Forensics can finish up. It's not like they haven't the guy who did this. And, he glances around the camp-site – who really wants to know what went on here?

They just look at one another and make their way back to the truck.

It's going to be a long drive back.

-H5O-

If there's one thing Danny's learnt in life, it's that nothing is ever over.

He and Rachel separated and that was good – the arguments over his job come to a wonderful soul relieving end –but then the arguments over the custody of Grace begin.

They send a perp to jail – another one replaces him.

It's a circle that never ends.

It gives him these worry lines.

These he sees as a reflection, mirrored in the glass of the partition to Steve's room.

He sees the reflection too, of Kono, Chin and Catherine behind him in the hospital corridor.

They're talking in whispers.

And through into the Intensive Care room, mixed with all those images, is Mary with Steve.

She's at his bedside, holding his hand.

But it never ends. This waiting at Steve's side. Watching machines pump every life-saving breath into him.

God, will it never end?

He leans his forehead against the glass.

It didn't stop with the rescue.

Sepsis was confirmed. Messing up an already messed-up kidney. An operation to stem a slow haemorrhage. Acute renal failure. Dialysis. At one point, there was even talk of a kidney transplant and that's – scary talk. Mary had had a blood test done to see if she were compatible as a donor. She was, but they'd all volunteered too if she'd come up negative.

But Steve's 'maintaining a steady course with medication,' they say. 'He's fit and he's a fighter- he wants to live.'

It sounds like a cliche from some late night medical soap repeat, but Danny accepts it, as, hey, it describes Steve to a T.

But Steve's weak from the general freaking abuse and malnutrition - and is being fed nutrients -another tube – how the hell can he possibly be considered fit?

It's all scary talk.

At least... a miracle... Pierson thought to use clean needles...

He remembers Mary leaving the room two days after Steve was admitted.

'How is he?'

'Pneumonia. He now has fucking pneumonia.' And she's trying not to cry.

Sepsis. Messing up already messed-up lungs. And Danny's read the forensic report outlining the possibility of water-boarding. Fluid in his lungs. The complication of empyema – whatever that is – so his left lung has to be drained. Another tube.

And she accepts Danny's hug, resting her head on his shoulder, finally allowing the tears that she'd bravely held back during the past forty-eight hours of hoping.

Days of 'critical but stable.'

And then they tell him, that if – and why not when? - _if_ Steve gets well physically, he'll need... _help_.

Help.

It's innuendo. It's veiled and it's not lost on any of them.

It means counselling.

It means seeing a shrink.

"Help? What do you mean by help? This is Lt. Commander Steve McGarrett. He's made of stone," he immediately reacts.

"No. No, he's not, Detective," says the Clipboard Scrubs Person.

He doesn't remember the doctor's name even. Shifts of staff come and go. Danny doesn't understand all the medical mumbo-jumbo. There's only one constant. Steve is hurting still, has tubes stuck in every part of his anatomy, is fighting now for every breath and won't get better after eight long days.

'_You're conservative,' accuses Steve._

'_Me? Conservative? Hey, that's not some kinda pot calling out black?' says Danny._

'_Name me one instance when I've been conservative?' says Steve._

'_No, by all means, you go first, I insist!' says Danny._

'_Easy enough.' He shrugs. 'The shirt and tie. You're in Hawaii and yet you think you should still dress like you're in New Jersey. You won't move on. You want things to stay exactly how they've always been,' says Steve, with his usual, 'I'm right and you're wrong.'_

Is it bad of him, thinks Danny, is it bad of him that he wants things to go back to exactly how they were the morning before Steve was abducted? Steve and Catherine playing at happy families. The four of them about to break open a case. Steve running round four blocks and not breaking a sweat when catching the bad guys. Saying, 'Book 'em, Danno.'

Life goes on and never ends regardless of the dramas that turn your own little piece of world upside-down. Outside, everything is normal. Everyday business goes on regardless. Traffic congestion. Too many tanned smiling tourist faces. Too many blissfully happy people at restaurants and bars, cafes and shave ice stalls – stark contrast to white antiseptic hospital corridors.

Danny permanently has a migraine.

Tired of praying.

' _Steve... Enough's enough ok? You get well! Now! I order it. As your best buddy! Don't I know what's best for you? Don't I always give you the best advice?'_

He turns away from the glass.

'_Forget it. I know you're going to be stubborn as always. Ok... what about a trade off? I'll offer help with the Marquis. I'll let you insult my hair, my tie, my shoes. I'll even take up running up mountains...'_

'_... anything... just get better, huh?'_

A never ending prayer.

-H5O-

White. And a bright light that makes him blink.

White. And not green. Then... he's safe...

_Free._

Relief hits him but he's too... fragile to react, his whole body heavy and weighted on a bed but God... the softness of an actual pillow.

Shapes... people float in the white, drifting in and out of his focus... in and out of sleep and waking...

Hospital. The smell hits him immediately though his nose is snuffly with a canula. And he guesses he needs to be in hospital - his chest hurts, his head aches, and he knows that if he moves something will hurt – but he can't remember why or how.

He's trembling and he wants to scratch.

Memories suddenly of Pierson...

Steve's been found... then... what happened to Pierson? He needs to know. And struggles to ask...

His throat is sore and he's thirsty and it's like the thought alone summons a hand that offers water in a paper cup. Another hand lifts his head and – the movement is stiff and hurts his shoulder – the hand guides his lips – and the sudden chill of iced liquid touching his mouth, slipping down his throat –though it's difficult to swallow and the hand of the nurse wipes his chin with a tissue – it's ecstasy, gratitude... disbelief he'd ever be able to do this again. And he closes his eyes. And sleeps again.

Wakes. And he knows Catherine is there. Longs to touch her. Nudges his head to feel her fingers on his cheek.

"Steve..." she whispers.

But he can't touch her. Can't move. Can't even open his eyes and he sleeps again. And wakes again and is offered drink from the hand again.

This time he's asked questions. He knows they have to ask, to check him out.

"Before you go off to sleep, can you tell me where you are?" asks a voice.

He wants to tell the voice that he doesn't want to sleep. He has his own question. He wants to know what happened to Pierson.

"Hosp-" and his own voice cracks and they give him more of the water.

"Hospital," he manages a second time. He's aware of a dressing strip at his upper lip. It doesn't help with getting stuff out. His beard has gone, but he has stubble that itches.

The hand, belongs to someone in scrubs. And this is the person talking to him. Nodding that he's given the correct answer.

"How long... " he can't finish – an overwhelming need to sleep takes him over – he guesses he's been given something for the pain – he feels it creeping into his body – in those areas where he knows Pierson hurt him the most – his stomach... inside. In his mind, he tracks down his arm and knows there's a drip inserted there. And damn... further down... he has a catheter too. And something at his stomach. Monitor pads are taped to his chest.

"How long..." he croaks again - and he still can't finish. He has to cough which makes him wince –hell, his lungs hurt. Should be easy to get the question out and he just can't do it. He lifts a hand to his chest – can't - restricted – a split moment of panic – _the chains_ – he's back in chains – he's back in the cage, in Pierson's chains - he peers down – groggy – nothing but the IV tube. A pulsometer on his finger. Falls back relieved.

The voice is talking.

"You've been here ten days. You're coming along fine. Just another couple of questions... another minute... and you can sleep again... An even easier one. Can you tell me your name?"

"Steve... McGarrett." He'd give them his rank too but he's just too damn tired and his eyes surrender and close again.

"The President's name?"

But he has his own question... _where's Pierson?_

But sleep takes him.

When he wakes, there's more than one voice. He doesn't open his eyes. Listens instead.

"What's..." The voices fade. He struggles to push alertness back into his brain. "He _is_ going to get better? _Fully_ better?" It's Mary. He listens because he needs to know too.

There's a smile with the reply. "He's kept himself in good condition – it's paid dividends. There's no reason why he shouldn't make a full recovery."

"The drugs..." He doses and doesn't make out the reply. But he's trembling and wants to scratch.

He's trembling still when Mary takes his hand in hers and he opens his eyes and sees her wide smile.

"Steve, Steve, I'm - you're alive - I'm so pleased - so pleased. Hell, that's sounds so corny, but you know what I mean."

"Yeah... me too." He says, closing his eyes again. And then apologises. "I can't... keep awake."

"I know... it doesn't matter."

It does matter. He has questions. He needs answers.

But when he sleeps this time, the nightmares begin...

_And Pierson is beating him over and over as he lies on the ground of the forest. _

'_Give me the name, McGarrett! Give me the name!'_

'_I told you, I told you the name.'_

'_But it's not the right name, is it?'_

_And Pierson stabs with the prod – it goes right through him and all he can do is stare at the gushing blood at his stomach –_

"No..."

"Steve?"

It's Catherine. She holds his hand but he longs to pull her in close.

A nurse is there and it's awkward for the two of them. The nurse talks about the flowers Catherine has brought him.

"Do you buy a guy flowers?" Catherine asks. " I dunno..."

It's how she is. Spontaneous.

He watches her lips. He so wants to kiss her. He could ask her questions but he falls asleep, waking suddenly as she rises to leave.

"Don't... go."

And he hates himself for being dependent on her. It was never their deal.

"We're only allowed five minutes. I'll be back. When you're more awake."

A doctor enters. And Steve's seeing further. Danny is out in the corridor and waves through the partition before the privacy blinds are drawn. And his questions won't get answered again.

His dressings are changed. It's uncomfortable being prodded and poked and turned. He glances down at the wounds. At Pierson's work. A fourth cut sits in all the yellow bruising. Holes where medical tubes have kept him alive – another still winds its way to equipment stashed under the bed. Stitches pucker at the edges of raw skin.

The doctor sees his surprise, his shock.

"We had to operate. Your right kidney was in bad shape. I'm afraid you've scarred. "

He shakes his head vaguely. He's not sure if it bothers him.

He sees the marks along his arm.

_He sees Pierson administering the drug. _

He reacts and pulls his arm sharply - close to his body.

The doctor doesn't see. He's chatting, all friendly-like, while he removes tape from Steve's lip.

"That's healed nicely. You'll be able to shave properly now," he says, tidying up his medical gear.

He wants to ask the doctor other stuff. He's missing half the detail. The doctor is talking on about ladies preferring stubble. He doesn't hear it as he closes his eyes.

He's a line of sleep and questions and he can't seem to pinpoint people down to ask... he supposes his Team found him, though... possible... some hiker might have stumbled on the camp-site... two consecutive thoughts are as much as all he can string together... he feels impatient and irritable... and he doses off again.

Another nightmare and a nurse is at his side soothing him.

He looks to the window for Danny but the lighting is dim in the corridor outside. He guesses it's night and his visitors have gone home.

He has nightmares all night long. Not really nightmares – simply dreams of his time with Pierson. For nearly three weeks his existence at the camp site was his whole life so it's natural he should be having these dreams. He can explain it that way. He just wishes he wouldn't wake up sweating and... scared. He just wishes... Pierson knows how sorry he was. He just wishes he could have convinced the guy. Even now he wants to make amends – contact Navy Seals. Put it all right.

Different nurses come and go. See to the equipment. His pulse and Bp are up. They look at him anxious and concerned. They think he's losing it...

"Don't give me something to sleep," he says to one. "I don't want to sleep." He guesses that was a mistake to say that. It sort of condemns him as insane. Who'd rather be in pain and awake?

"Dr Metcalfe decides these things. We'll wait and see what he says in the morning? See how you get on with breakfast."

But he grabs her hand before she leaves. Surprising both him and her with the grip.

"Can you tell me... what happened?" he gasps out. " How did... how did I get rescued? What happened to Matt Pierson?"

She sees he means to find out.

" Hawaii-5-O found you. I'm sorry, that's all I know."

He falls back exhausted.

It's like he's swimming a marathon, dragged down by currents into murky depths, grasping for driftwood, finding the surface to get bearings, air – facts he needs to know, piece by piece – only to be hauled under the waves again.

In the end, he sleeps late – sunshine is bright through the blinds to the room.

Mary is in his room, sitting in an easy chair, flipping through the pages of a magazine.

She stands and comes to his bed.

"Hiya, sleepy-head!" she says with affection and runs her fingers through his hair like they were kids again. "You ready for breakfast? Don't blame you if you say no – they're only letting you have yogurt. Not much to look forward to. "

"Yogurt's fine." He'll eat anything so he can be allowed to stay awake and have a conversation.

Memories flood in... the cage... not being able to eat... of being force-fed. He can't escape that campsite in his dreams. He can't escape it while awake. He's not... free. Pierson says that in his dreams. 'You're never be free, McGarrett.'

Mary runs off to collect a tray. A nurse returns and levers up the bed and helps him to sit, pushing up pillows to support his back.

It's effort – he coughs repeatedly and it leaves him breathless - but he's just gonna so do this thing.

The nurse leaves them alone. "I'll inform the doctor, you're awake and eating."

"Can you manage? Have I got to feed you?" asks Mary, tucking a serviette into the neck of his gown, steadying the tray for him. He doesn't tell her it hurts his shoulder and stomach.

He takes the spoon. His hands shake. He tries to control it. But Mary sees it.

"They say that will stop." Her eyes look big and frightened. "That guy... that guy, the things he did to you." She shakes her head in disbelief.

"I'll be ok," he says.

"Sure you will, tough guy. Now eat your yogurt, like a good hero." She smiles and he even manages to smile back and he takes his first tentative taste of solid food for weeks. It feels like it will choke him. A lump sticking in his throat.

"You were on a ventilator," she explains, seeing the expression he can't hide. This simple task isn't going to be so easy. "Did the doctors tell you? For days." She turns away. "Sepsis and then pneumonia."

He didn't know. He just knew he was dying... in the green green leaves, with blue blue sky up above... he was left to die. And he still can't feel angry over Pierson.

"The Team found me?" He says after the next mouth full.

"Mud from Pierson's tyre-treads. From that, they were able to pinpoint Pierson's camp. Until that lucky break we'd been looking all over, once HPD had to call the aerial search off when-" She stops being so chatty. Unsure whether to continue. She looks away to the floor. Lost. Not finishing.

He's not going to push her.

"Where's Catherine? I'm sure she's been here." He's getting tired again. His voice is slurred. He can't hardly muster the energy to lift the spoon. He really has no appetite.

"Don't worry, bro, she'll be here this evening. Grifferson managed to get her a four week assignment at the Navy Seal place so she can be with you. Desk job. Nine till five."

Grifferson? The name rings a bell.

"Where... where are you staying?"

"Your house." And she smiles cheekily. "You had enough?" asks Mary.

He's suddenly feeling nauseous.

"You should try and eat more. Then they'll take out the feeding tube."

He's eaten three-quarters of a pot. And now he lays back heavy in the pillows. Pain radiates from his stomach and lower back. He feels a need to lie down. To close his eyes again.

His spoon sits in his lifeless hand.

"You should... go... back." This is something urgent that he needs to say to her. "Go back to the mainland. Wo Fat... It's too dangerous..."

He senses Mary lifting the tray – even taking the spoon from his hand - that's all he remembers... he's not even aware that she leaves...

People come and go and he can't even keep track...

Two doctors in white coats. One female and one male. They talk near the wall. Low voices. They think that he sleeps. He wonders if one is Dr. Metcalfe. His back is turned. Steve narrows his eyes to make out the ID tag on the breast pocket of the lady. Dark-skinned. Native Hawaiian. Slightly chubby with a friendly enough face.

Dr Alana Mahelona.

Department of Psychiatry.

She leaves but is caught by a nurse out in the corridor.

The guy introduces himself as Chris Metcalfe. The head guy in charge of the whole department. He checks Steve's stats. Gets busy with a stethoscope. A nurse helps Steve to lean forward and moves aside his gown. He has to cough. But Steve can't take his eyes off Dr Mahelona seen through the glass partition. He knows of guys with Post Traumatic Stress. He knows that sometimes you don't show the symptoms at first. It can be triggered off by a later event. They're not looking at his physical symptoms. They're looking for something else.

Not going to happen to Steve McGarrett. Not going to.

"They tell me you had a restless night. Bad dreams," says Metcalfe, checking his stitches, peering behind the bandages.

He feels like he's on trial.

"I was alone," he pants out, hating that he's so weak to even sit forward, "with Pierson for nearly three weeks... I'm going to be... having dreams of those three weeks. It was no... vacation." He's terse. Defensive.

"That's, um, very, um... pragmatic... but if you ever want to talk things over we have an excellent counsellor here. Dr. Alana Mahelona who specialises in trauma. Her post is partly funded by a charitable group that provides victim support."

Victim? Is that what he was? It'd never occurred to him...

"I'm a reserve in the Seals," he says, still breathless. "They have their own people." He has no intention of seeing anyone. Does Metcalfe see the lie?

But Metcalfe's back to looking over Steve's charts.

"You've been through a great deal... You requested a reduction in your meds?... hmmm... I think it'd be unwise to rush things. All signs are, that might be a bit hasty. Just bear with us for another day, hey, Commander McGarrett?" And with that the doctor flounces out. He's not fooled Metcalfe then. Not fooled Metcalfe that he's ok.

_Mentally. _

Is he getting paranoid? They're simply doing their work. He lies back and closes his eyes and can't stop visualizing Pierson in some cell at HPD. He hopes Danny hasn't gotten him in _their _cell. Pierson didn't deserve that. Pierson is a victim more than Steve.

Steve is a victim? He feels like a fraud. No way is he a victim.

Did he... did Steve then deserve what happened to him? No. No. But he was still responsible for what happened to Pierson.

It was a mistake. An honest mistake. But he wanted, he still wants, Pierson to believe, to understand that he's sorry.

What he needs... he doesn't need a counsellor... he needs someone... he needs someone to tell him it's all ok...

He dreams...

_They won't let him see his mother... he's sixteen again and his father won't let him see his mother in another room... but he sees her... he sees her covered in blood... and he has done this to her..._

_He dreams of his father being shot by Victor Hesse. But Steve is accused instead. And they all understand. They all understand it was because he was held for three weeks by Pierson. He tries to plead with them. That's it no excuse. Nothing justifies killing a man. The scene replays. He's shooting his father as his father says, 'it's ok. I love you, Champ.' The gun resonates round the whole forest and a hawk takes flight..._

He wakes with a start.

And Danny is kicking his heels, hand in pockets at the foot of the bed.

Steve feels instantly jittery – the dream hasn't quite left him. He's checking out the room. Every space. Detail. Checking. Safety. Door. He wants to leave. He wants to go. He wants his freedom...He wants... he feels vulnerable, exposed... like he's under a magnifying glass. Pierson watched him to see if he'd break. These guys are watching him to see if he'd break.

He tries to cover his reaction with a question - because it just isn't normal to be like this – he asks the first thing that comes into his head.

"Where... where's Kono and Chin?"

"Well, aloha to you too," says Danny with sarcasm. "The doctors say you should have only one visitor at a time. I drew the short straw."

"They think I'm..." he's about to say 'unstable,' because it's on his mind. Why is he freaking out like this? Tired. Meds. The heroin...

"They think you get tired easy," finishes Danny, as he pulls up a chair noisily, and sits astride it with its back to the bed, leaning on his forearms. "I've got five minutes. So... what do we talk about?"

"Danny..."

He's weak. So damn weak. He just wants to appear normal. And he sees it in Danny's eyes. Sympathy. Pity. Doesn't want it.

"I brought you a card!" He'd nearly forgotten. "Signed by everyone!" and he points to the bedside table. It's a blur. Something blue.

"Danny, I want to thank you guys for finding me." Ok. So that was normal.

"It's nothing. You don't have to. To be honest, it'd embarrass me. It took us nearly three weeks-"

"Ok, so I can't..." He's so breathless, but he just wants to be normal again, "believe how incom... incompetent you are. You're fired," and he coughs into the half smile that's on his lips and has to close his eyes shut tight against the hurt in his chest and stomach.

"That's good... that's good. I see the sense of humour is still intact," and Danny is beaming back at him when he opens his eyes again.

Steve scratches at his belly.

"Hey, stop that, otherwise I'll get nursie to put baby mitts on you."

And Steve quickly tucks his hands under the bedclothes so Danny won't see how they shake.

Danny glances to the movement. He hasn't missed a thing.

"You're still coming down, Steve. They say you were lucky to be out cold through the worst of cold turkey."

Pity. He doesn't need it.

They fall silent but Danny must still be thinking about Pierson drugging him.

"But... we might not have caught Pierson if it weren't for the guy needing his next heroin fix," he adds quietly.

"You have him?"

"We have him, yeah. We have him in the _morgue_."

"Dead?"

He feels like something is falling away from him. "I never... wanted him..."

Danny talks on. Oblivious to the machines with their warning lights. Rapid heart-beat. Steve tries to control it. Though he has something to say, something important – he _can, _he _will_ control it.

"Yeah. We had him cornered. He took his own life. We were terrified, Steve. We'd run out of places to look and he was our only lead."

"I was trying to protect him, Danny." He stifles a cough and surrenders to his pillow and closes his eyes. Willing the machine, _his body_ not to give him away. "I never wanted him dead."

Danny cottons on that's something is not right.

"Steve?"

"It was me. It was me that was in the wrong." He has to say this fast – a nurse runs in – must have seen his readings relayed to the front desk. "It was me. I took command and I left him behind for dead." He's gasping out his words over the nurse's – they're talking together-

"What did you say to him?" she demands of Danny.

"I didn't say anything!" And Danny is scraping back the chair, alarmed. "Steve!"

"I didn't follow correct procedure," Steve slurs out. The room is spinning in his panic.

"Steve, you didn't want him dead? We didn't want him dead either! We couldn't help it if he took his life. It was out of our hands!" insists Danny.

Steve's coughing and still trying to talk.

"Don't give me more of the stuff. Don't do that. Don't. Don't," he begs. He senses her fingers stabbing at buttons to the IV at his side. He really doesn't want the nurse to give him something to calm him down.

"I need to talk. Let me talk." He's lifting his head, shifting to the side to try and stop her. A sharp jab of pain and he's forced back to the pillow again, hissing, squeezing his eyes shut, throwing them open – he has to say this stuff. "His brother said he was dead and I took his word... as true-"

"Please try and calm down, Steve!" says the nurse and she has a hand firmly on his, another is pressing the emergency call button.

"Steve!" says Danny too too loud. "Steve, stay still!"

He's confused. They're all talking at once.

He's drawing in deep draughts of oxygen from the canula. And he's coughing in all the rush of words and it's killing his lungs. He's hot, hot, sweating, trembling.

"I didn't check it out. It was down to me – men's lives depended on me and I didn't check it out."

"Steve, calm down – is he rambling? – You'll pull stitches or something," says Danny. Scared.

"It didn't matter what he did to me. I never wanted him dead. I never wanted him dead." His voice is strange to him, coming out as a moan.

"You'll need to leave," says the nurse to Danny.

"No..." And Steve shakes his head deep in the pillow. "No... I need him to stay... need someone..."

He really doesn't want to be alone. "Stay..."

He needs someone to tell him it's ok. He desperately needs someone to tell him it's all ok... He desperately has a need to be ok again...

But... another nightmare takes him...

-H5O-


	10. Chapter 10

A/N Thanks again everyone for reviews – and for reading – and for being patient with me getting these final chapters out.

Chapter 10 is your link 'progress so far' chapter, from Chapter 9, that I see you all liked, to Chapter 11, that I _know_ I'm going to like writing. *winks*

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 10<span>

Governor Jameson gives them all the time they need to visit Steve. Which is weird really, thinks, Danny, when you consider that they've just gotten this hottest lead that could bust up the Wo Fat gang for good. But no, the lady insists there's nothing in it, and advises that Hawaii-5-O should shut down until Steve is fully recovered. And Danny puts her mood swings down to hormones. And winces at the memory of Rachel getting pissed off with him if he ever said such things under the Williams' roof.

Danny stands staring through the glass partition to Steve.

He feels hollow empty at the way his Boss-Partner lays there.

Guilt.

Pierson has gone and laid the biggest guilt trip in the whole Universe on Steve that he can't see Steve ever crawling out of. Not even SuperSeal. Not without help.

"Detective Williams?" A doctor is leaving the room. "I thought you knew. We're letting him sleep today?"

"Yeah, I know. Just passing. Had my knee checked out." He indicates down to his leg, that only a half an hour previous, had been given a clean bill of health."How..." and he swallows hard, "how is he?"

The doc sighs and joins him looking through the glass partition. "We're moving him out of IC tomorrow. We should be thinking of getting him up and about in a couple of days. Otherwise it's bedsores and circulatory problems."

"No. No, I don't mean generally_."_

Mentally.

The doctor seems taken aback. "Yesterday's episode?"

_Episode?_

"It shouldn't have come as a surprise. He came to us in a very exhausted state. Then there's the heroin. His body hasn't had sufficient time to recover. Even surgery and anaesthesia can have side effects."

Or he could be going crazy inside that head of his. And who could blame him?

"I mean _mentally_," says Danny, coming right out with it, looking the guy fully in the face.

"Of course, of course, I should take a more holistic approach. Truthfully, not my line of work. Talk to Dr. Mahelona. She's in psychiatric. Assigned to Steve but he's refused to see her."

He has? Go-it-alone-Steve. At least that much hasn't changed about Steve.

The doc goes back to looking through the glass.

"I don't know how you'd react to being beaten, being tortured. Personally, I'm sure I'd crack-up. It can't be something you can get over that easily. But to have survived this far, shows a resilient mind, don't you think? You must know your friend better than I. You want my opinion? But it won't be a medical one and you can't ever quote me - he'll pull through. He'll have his own mechanisms for doing that. I know it's not easy for friends and family to look on. And like I said, this isn't my field of expertise. But I understand you want to help. Go see Dr. Mahelona. She'll give you advice. Perhaps you can persuade him to take sessions with her? I'm sure though... if she were to sum it all up... just be there for him. Give him time. Make sure he gets plenty of rest. Huh? Yeah. Yeah. I'm sure he'll do ok."

-H5O-

Catherine is there at his side – he's sure she's been there before –

"Bad... dream."

"Oh." And she bends down and kisses him on the forehead. "What about now? Bad dreams all gone?"

He loves the smell of her and moves to pull her closer – risks pulling the tubing at his wrist – his hand on her waist. She responds, getting comfortable on the side of the bed, nuzzling her forehead into his hair – he holds her tighter, breathing into the hollow of her neck.

He's not sure, but he thinks she's crying.

"I missed you. I missed you so much," he whispers, wishing that he never has to let her go.

All the time in the forest, he's put the feeling away. He couldn't cope with that. It had to be that simple. That un-complicated. He shakes his head. "I could never take you to that place."

She pulls back, looking at him, questioning, sniffing, quickly wiping away the tears.

"God, look at me!"

"You look just fine."

And he tries to pull her close again. This time they kiss. And he can feel her need too. She breaks away eventually, resting her head on his left shoulder.

"What did you mean, 'I could never take you to that place'?"

"Nothing."

"Steve. Steve, don't cut us out."

"I couldn't think of you there. You didn't belong. I had to leave you behind." And he's angling for another kiss, that she gives. She understands.

And he hugs her close. Never ever wanting to let her go.

_And Pierson is in his head, giving him heroin, hugging him close, as Steve gets his high, telling him he'll take care of Steve. Hugging him close like this –_

"Steve? Steve, you're hurting me-"

His fingertips are digging deep into her lower arm.

He did that?

He instantly releases his grip. Flustered.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to."

He did that? He hurt her? He'll have to forget Pierson. Somehow.

"I'm so glad Pierson didn't harm you," he murmurs into her hair. And it's the honest truth and saying these things close to Catherine pushes away some of that tension. He needs her more than ever.

"I know, Steve. I know you are."

There's so much they don't have to say to one another.

But he wants to say that he never wants to leave her ever again, that he never wants to be separated ever again, but it's not their deal. He can't be dependent on her. He can't ever put that burden on her... to drive his demons away.

He's on his own. He's got to be strong without her.

-H5O-

He doses. And Danny is standing beside his bed. But he can't make the effort to fully open his eyes. Falls into sleep again. And wakes with a jerk.

"Sorry," he murmurs, realizing Danny is still there, peering through the blinds at the window.

"For falling asleep on me?" Danny turns.

"Story of your love-life," Steve manages to joke. Normal. He's got to keep things normal.

"Ah, you. You cannot hurt me," Danny says, coming back to the bed.

"No... I meant... earlier. The other day. For freaking out."

"Your little outburst? Nothing happened."

And it's something of a relief that Danny's willing to overlook things.

There's an uncomfortable silence with Steve struggling to keep awake. He feels a need to explain about Pierson, about how it wasn't the guy's fault but thinks he must have said all that already. He can't honestly remember how much he did say. Nothing happened? A whole lot did happen - enough for the doctors to sedate him for a whole twenty-four hours. And for everyone to be walking round him like they're on egg-shells.

Danny decides to make for the door.

"I'll be back when you need less beauty sleep. Got work to do." He pauses at door-way, talking back into the room. "This is the part where I go all formal on you. I have official police questions. I guess you Seal guys call it 'de-briefing'? Need to dot 'i's and cross't's. We need to know why Pierson did what he did? For reports. It was revenge then? The doctors say-"

"The doctors?" he prompts, opening his eyes wide, suddenly feeling tense.

"Doctors, yeah," and Danny looks over to the window, squinting. He clears his throat. Like he's not liking what he's about to come out with. "They say... if we go over the last three weeks, it might help you to talk things over... so... I'll..._ we'll_ be here... if you want to talk... but if you don't... you have that choice." And he shrugs. Awkward.

"By doctors, you mean... _shrink_." He doesn't like it that they've been discussing him behind his back. But he knows the routine. He knows the drill. Someone, somewhere is filing a report on the mental condition of one Steve McGarrett.

"I mean one very nice lady called Dr. Alana Mahelona who really, you should get to know better."

"You think I'm going crazy? Danny... there's nothing... I don't... I won't get PST. I won't let anything get in the way of my job."

"Well, that's the fighting talk we all like to hear but there you go with all the hero stuff!" and Danny is flinging an arm in the air. And Steve can't understand his sudden raised voice. "But Steve, have you seen yourself?"

"What? What?" He's trying to sit up. Everything is so stiff and achy and uncoordinated. And he's worried their talking so loud will bring a nurse running in again.

And Danny returns back to the bed to Steve's side. "I've been told not to... 'upset you unnecessarily', but to say you look awful, would be paying you a compliment, buddy. Pierson beat you, he cattle-prodded you, he stabbed you, he starved you, he thirsted you-"

"Thirsted?"

"Yes,_ thirsted_. He caged you like an animal. He deprived you of sleep. He forced you to take heroin. Steve, you are gonna have hang-ups over this, you're only human."

"I won't let it. We won't talk about it. And that's the end of it."

They're silent again. Danny has his hands in his pockets and rocks on his feet.

"Okay. Ok-ay. I'm not going to argue over this. I would never press you – I repeat we're here if you do want to talk." Danny's voice is low, so sincere it hurts, and he's now thoughtfully examining his shoes. "I'm just glad... and this is hard to say to the guy who keeps stealing the keys to my Camaro... hey... I'm just glad you made it." And Danny gives him a little punch on the shoulder. And realises from the way Steve grimaces, it's his bad shoulder.

"Hawaii would've missed you."

"Only Hawaii?" Steve's got to keep things normal.

"You megalomaniac. I've got to go."

And Danny's making for the door, calling over his shoulder. "Just promise me this one thing. Don't go getting all abducted ever again, you hear. I'll go grey."

-H5O-

The next time Danny sees Steve he's being pushed along the corridor by a male orderly. A blanket is neatly tucked round his waist – a surgical gown just doesn't give a guy privacy.

Two days later (Danny's been on a stake out, getting evidence on that associate of Wo Fat's – and Jameson could be a little happier about that than she is) and Steve's still looking so goddamned pale and tired, his face pinched like he's not entirely out of pain. But, it's all an unbelievable transformation from the Steve they found close to death in the cage. Kono had been in the morning and had said more or less the same thing - he seems brighter.

This man is made of determined stuff and Danny can't help but admire him.

But Kono had also run through the things Steve talked about. The weather. The surf. The nursing staff. The hospital food - he's now eating three meals a day.

'Small talk,' she says shrugging. 'Though he seemed interested in Doug Warren? Like he can't wait to get back to work. That's a good thing?' And she checks out both Chin and Danny to agree. Chin turns away. Says nothing. He's thinking what Danny's thinking. And probably Kono too.

Steve is avoiding anything to do with his time with Pierson.

So... Danny still worries.

"Hey! Look at you! How many revs can you get this thing up to?" A lot considering the big brute of a guy at the controls pushing Steve.

A flicker of a weak smile from Steve. "Danny, meet Gordon, my personal chauffer for the day. Gordon, Danny." And that all seems normal enough.

And Gordon has a monster of a handshake that goes with those biceps. Danny guesses he gets the hospital extra clients wanting broken fingers fixed.

"Wrestler, huh?"

Gordon grins.

Danny shoves his throbbing hands into his pockets once they've been released from the vice, though he'd dearly love to smack Steve for that smirk. But Steve hasn't had a whole load of fun lately. Let him laugh.

"Your constitutional going to take long? I've those "police type" questions to ask, remember?" And he makes an inverted comma sign.

"Now isn't a good time, Danno. I need to-" And Steve stops. Looking concerned. Which can only mean Danny feels concerned too.

"No, we really do need to _talk_," says Danny, pulling a face.

"No, I really do need to-"

"He needs to pee," finishes Gordon, glancing to the Men's Room door, that they've stopped near. "We're out for a walk and he needs to use the bathroom. Can't hang on until we get back to his room."

And revenge can be sweet and Danny feels his own smirk break out across his face. This is like old times. This is how things should be.

"Didn't like to use the bed pan before we left, did we?" adds Gordon, leaning forward, speaking confidentially into Steve's ear, smiling over Steve's head, like he's a baby in a pram. Bless him.

Danny purses his lips. Stops himself from saying what he's about to say. And suddenly he doesn't want to joke any longer and wants to apologize. He wants to be swallowed up by the nearest big black hole for being such a dumbo.

_The pan in the cage. That Chin tossed aside._

It'd figure that Steve would be humiliated by that. And Danny feels his heart breaking into a thousand pieces. Over a bed-pan? But he can't stop now – and he can't exactly tell Gordon to shut the hell up either - it'd make it too obvious that he knows exactly how Steve is thinking – and this is just too public a place for Danny to say he understands.

"Well, don't let me stop the intrepid duo," he says lightly and even mockingly holds the door open. Steve scowls up at him as he's pushed past. Steve so doesn't deserve this. And Danny's expecting Steve to confide in him? How the hell is he going to make this up to Steve?

Inwardly cursing, he walks off down the corridor, wondering if he should have a coffee and disappear for a while.

He does an about turn, narrowly avoiding walking into a couple of medics and wanders back the other way.

He can be a man and just do his straight apology.

And then he notices the two guys standing at the nurses' desk – dressed in Navy beige, smart, capped, with enough studs in their combined collars to shame a Hell's Angel waistcoat. And one has a leather file case, neatly tucked under one arm.

Navy Seal officers.

And they're asking for Steve. And one gives his name as Doctor McFarland. One is a doctor?

The nurse catches sight of him.

"Oh, Detective Williams?"

This could get embarrassing.

"Have you seen Commander McGarrett?"

He can do nothing but numbly say, "bathroom."

"We can wait. We're a little early," says Non-Doctor Navy Seal Officer, without hardly blinking.

So they all wait. Danny on one side of the corridor, looking anywhere to avoid meeting their eye. And these two on the other, staring at his section of wall above his head, almost standing stiff to attention. And it all feels a bit awkward for a whole couple of minutes. And it would be funny at any other time, but not this.

He has to say something.

"You're early? You, um, have an..._ appointment_ then?" Trust these guys to bring bureaucracy to a hospital visit.

"Detective Williams?" As he suspected, these guys had done their homework and knew exactly who he was. "You found Commander McGarrett? Yes, we arranged to see the Commander at fifteen hundred – three o'clock." And Non-Doctor Seal checks his watch.

And out of the corner of his eye, Danny can see Steve and Gordon, re-appearing from the Men's Room.

"Oh, only _I'd_ hoped to have a word with Steve," and he coughs, not sure whether he should be so informal with these guys, "_Commander McGarrett. _Ask him a few questions. About Pierson."

"I'm sure it can wait, Detective."

"Excuse me?" he asks. And yes, he _is_ indignant.

And Steve and Gordon are almost at to their area of the corridor.

"We're here to de-brief Commander McGarrett over Chief Petty Officer Matthew Pierson."

"Excuse me?" he asks again, "So what you saying? Your de-briefing takes precedence over my de-briefing?" And he's pointing at his own chest.

"They arranged it yesterday, Danny," says Steve, who's joined them, looking more exhausted than ever. "They've been sent by your Grifferson friend." He's monotone. Flat. He's talking in his Navy Seal voice.

"Are you sure you're up to it?" asks Danny, incredulous. Talking to a friend is one thing. But to these guys?

"Danny, leave it."

Danny ignores him. "Are you sure you're up to it?" He repeats. "Because you don't look it to me!"

"Dr Metcalfe has okayed it."

Danny turns on the two Seals. "He's hardly off his death-bed and you vultures move in, huh?"

"Danny, cool it."

"You don't have to do this."

And Steve gives him that look, that look he gives like his soul is destroyed. The look he gives when his soul is destroyed but he's covering it up with duty and bravery. With being so damned tough. With the stoic composure stuff and all those other Steve qualities. It's a look that only Steve can do. With his eyes.

"I do. I do have to do this."

"No. No. You _don't_."

"Danny. I know what you're trying..." Steve sighs. "Just leave it. "

"He does have to do this," interrupts the Non-Doctor Seal. "He took an oath once to protect National Security and he's still bound by that oath. And in answer to your earlier question, yes, our de-briefing _does_ take precedence over yours. In fact, it goes further. Your office has already been informed. Under Section S.221 of the Classified Information Act, you are not permitted to ask any questions of Commander McGarrett regarding Operation Ghosthawk and or Chief Petty Officer Matthew Pierson. In addition, if he has already discussed any part, or whole, of what occurred during his abduction, you must inform us immediately of all that was said, and in no way must it take written or technical data form, otherwise you will be prosecuted under said section, S.221. The penalty could be up to ten years in jail. Do I make myself clear, Detective Williams?"

Danny opens his mouth and closes it shut again. Surprised. Shocked. Puts his hands on his hips. Passes a hand over his mouth. He really doesn't know what else to say or do to fight Steve's corner. All he knows is, he _does_ need to fight. These guys are bastards. He could throw a punch and literally do that fighting.

"You're gagging him, you know that?" Steve should be talking and he can't.

"Danny, just go," says Steve, beckoning Gordon, who's looking completely in awe of these guys, to push him to his room.

"We'll follow when you're settled in," and Steve nods as he passes by, giving Danny one last punch-gut glance.

"He can't even talk to Dr. Mahelona?" asks Danny. "I suppose that'd be illegal too?"

"We'll decide the appropriateness of that in due course. We're not inhuman, Detective Williams," says MacFarland.

"No, but you're cockroaches. You hurt him," and he's shoving a finger into that nice smart shirt of Non-Doctor Seal,"you hurt him, and I'll forget I have a badge. I'll forget that_ I_ took an oath to uphold the laws of Hawaii. Do_ I_ make myself clear?"

-H5O-

Effort. Even though Gordon takes most of his weight to climb back into bed. Exertion. His gown clings damp, close and uncomfortable from the trickles of sweat running over his skin. And he's trembling. Breathing tight and fast. Like he'd just run up a trail in the Koolai Mountains. Was he ever going to get fit again?

"I don't know who you guys are exactly, but he's too tired," complains Gordon, plumping up the pillow that Steve sinks back into, grateful.

MacFarland and Chilcott are already in his room.

And Steve can't be dealing with both Gordon and Danny coming to his defence. There'd never been any way to avoid this meeting. Not after his team had contacted Grifferson.

And he closes his eyes. There's the ache again at his stomach.

"It's ok, Gordon."

"If you had said, if someone had said they were coming, I wouldn't have insisted on the walk," continues Gordon, like someone's mother.

It wasn't exactly a walk. And Steve honestly thought he could cope. He felt so much better than the day before.

"You can't push yourself like this," continues Gordon, and he's nudging Steve's elbow to show he has a glass of water for him. Steve opens his eyes. Hesitates before taking it. Even though he's thirsty, the sight of water... _the way the cloth hugged his face and he couldn't breathe..._

"This won't take many minutes. It's just routine," explains MacFarland. "I'm a qualified doctor. If you find this proves too much, I'm calling a halt." This is as much for Steve's benefit as Gordon's.

Gordon eyes MacFarland suspiciously and he's not convinced. He places Steve's finished glass on the side- table.

"Your emergency button is right there, Commander. You need it, you use it. Ok?" It's a full-on parting threat to the two Seals. And he leaves.

Steve closes his eyes as Lt. Commander Chilcott, Intelligence, sets up a recording device on the bedside table. For sound only Steve had noticed.

But they're watching him. That's why Dr. MacFarland, the Seal psychiatrist is really here.

And Steve feels... vulnerable and exposed again.

'_You feeling vulnerable yet, McGarrett?' taunts Pierson, before he hits him again._

Here, in his hospital bed, safe from Pierson, he can nearly feel himself flinch. Can feel the tremor that twitches at his right arm. At his right cheek.

And he remembers Pierson taking the vid with his phone. The way, Steve couldn't... escape from that... _hide_.

He's dreading this. His hands shake and he hides them. He'd steeled himself. He'd put everything away. All the bad memories that still leak through to his nightmares. Where he still can't hide.

And he won't be able to hide now.

He opens his eyes again. Chilcott seems clumsy and noisy in the confined space at his side.

"I'm sorry about Danny. Out there," says Steve. Anything. Anything so as not to think.

"I'm sure he was just being a friend," says MacFarland, already seated on a chair to his right, a notepad on his lap, a pen ready in his hand. "You haven't said anything to him, or your team? Catherine? Your sister?"

"No."

"Why do you think that is?" And that sounds like such a clichéd shrink question that Steve could nearly smile.

He doesn't answer.

Self-reliance.

There's only one person on this earth that can deal with this, and it's Steve McGarrett. It's only Steve McGarrett that, in the end going to make him better. With time.

Weak.

He doesn't want to show, that he might be..._ is_... weak?

"Sometimes, it's easier to talk to someone who's not close," offers MacFarland. "Someone impersonal."

It might be true. But this isn't going to be easy either. He'd rather not talk at all.

He'd rather try and forget.

"In your own good time, Commander," prompts Chilcott, satisfied now that his device is working, and taking a seat to Steve's left, pulling a wad of papers from his leather file.

Trapped between the two. And he looks to the door. Perspiration still. His lips... mouth are dry. Though Gordon gave him that water only a couple of minutes ago. His chest is tight. His mind is exploding with all those unwelcome images that he's tried so hard to put away.

"Where..." Steve shakes his head, "I dunno where you want me to begin." Already he's feeling... thoughts not straight...

"We can ask questions, if you prefer?" offers MacFarland.

And he nods.

"About Pierson. He'd been missing for four years?" asks Chilcott, straight in there. "Are you able to say what happened to him in those four years? We're assuming he was captured by Na Thunglor's men? And this was the reason for his revenge? He blamed all those on Ghosthawk for leaving him behind?"

"He said he was picked up, yes."

"They tortured him?"

"He said so, yes."

"You believed him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He said..."

"Commander?"

"He said..." and he swallows hard. It's getting bad – it's getting bad after only a minute in – he can feel the hurt, the physical hurt all over, the way he was beaten, the way the cattle prod seemed to burn, the way the water suffocated him. Hard on himself. He's got to be hard. Determined. Can't show these guys he's weak. "He said that all the stuff he'd meted out to me – and to Easton and Pereira - he'd experienced himself."

"He could have been making that up?"

"Don't think so. It was..." He goes quiet. Unable to find the words.

"Commander?"

"It was too... _real_. You know what I mean? The things he was telling me. Too real..."

The two men fall silent. Glance at one another. Like they don't get it. He's got to stick to facts. To _detail_.

"The operation went belly-up," says Chilcott, "and you don't think, that he might have somehow contacted Na Thunglor's men telling them you were on your way? Na Thunglor's men never went public with Pierson? Why didn't they? Perhaps because he was their snitch?"

"No. We were just unlucky. And he kept quiet about our escape route out of there. If he were in with Na Thunglor's men, we wouldn't have ever made it to the rendezvous point."

"But the Ghosthawk files record you as saying that you came under attack twice in the next two days? That could have been down to him? Telling them the direction you were heading?"

"And I also suggested that Na Thunglor's men were thicker on the ground than Intelligence had said. They got their numbers wrong. That's why we'd been made in the first place. That's why we kept running into his men. Once we were out of their area, provided we avoided Chinese border troops, we were fine."

And MacFarland speaks. Studying him... watching him.

"You still believe he was a hero? Even though he's killed two other fellow Seals? And tortured you?"

The question throws him. A question with facts. And he has to answer. With facts. Detail. Not emotion. He looks to the window. To the recording device. Wondering how much of this will condemn him.

"Commander?"

Work through this step by logical step.

"We wouldn't have gotten out if he hadn't kept quiet. It has to count for something. For one whole year he didn't implicate this country. That has to count for something. He shouldn't have killed Easton and Pereira – I knew Pereira's family well. No, he shouldn't have ... tried to kill me." Steve won't, _can't_ use the word 'torture'. "But I'm convinced he couldn't help it. His mind... he wasn't thinking straight."

"You've... forgiven him?" asks MacFarland, nodding, as if that's good of Steve. As if Steve is giving right answers. And MacFarland would be thinking of closure for Steve. Steve knows the psychology. Two lectures a week in the blue room. One on Post Traumatic Stress. They have to know what to look out for in their fellow Seal. When the cracks appear...

"Forgiven him?"

"Yes, forgiven him."

He forgave Pierson right at the very beginning? That's why he could never draw on that anger? But he has some vague recollection of crawling on the forest floor, begging Pierson to forgive _him_. And that forgiveness never came.

There was no closure for Steve. The guilt never leaves him.

"Yes." He says simply. "I forgave him."

"Why do you think that is?" asks MacFarland, and Chilcott snorts with impatience. "You can answer that," says MacFarland, ignoring the other Seal.

"I don't know."

"I'm not going to put words in your mouth, but you felt responsible for Pierson's situation, as his commanding officer perhaps? You were left with feelings of guilt for the fact he was left behind?"

It's so true, it hurts.

"I don't know."

"Did he give you any indication how he eventually got away?" interrupts Chilcott.

Back to facts. To detail, and Steve feels relieved. His hands are hot and sticky. He doesn't want more of MacFarland's searching questions. "He had forged papers," continues Chilcott. "A number of aliases. He obviously had some links with crime cartels to get those. This is another reason why we believe he might have been with in with Na Thunglor's men."

"He said they eventually lost interest in him."

"Just like that?"

"A year. He was held captive for a year." He wasn't about to go into any detail about how Pierson claimed he was abused, how he'd slept with members of the gang for food. For heroin. What good would that do now? "And then they took him as one of their own. They got him out of China... Thailand and he got to work for the Florida Yakuza. I'm assuming they gave him all the false documentation that he needed." His voice is flat. He can deal with facts.

Chilcott looks over to MacFarland. "I'm sure we can let Detective Williams know this much. He can notify Florida. And they can possibly trace Pierson's contacts." MacFarland nods back and then turns to Steve.

"You think they finally broke him?" asks MacFarland. "If you say he wasn't thinking straight?"

"I can't say. It... can't have been easy for him."

"He said nothing more than this? Of his year in captivity?"

"No. We didn't talk much."

'_You talk and you get this! I only want to hear you say that name. Tell me the goddamned name, McGarrett!'_

He can do this but it's feeling like an interrogation. He has no where to look to avoid their eyes. The door. The handbasin. Even the writing on the soap dispenser. He's desperate. He wants to leave. He wants _them_ to leave.

"You went through the same training programme as Matt Pierson?" asks MacFarland, uncrossing his legs and drawing his chair closer. Putting space between himself and Chilcott. Confidentiality. This man wants to be his friend. And Steve... something inside... pulls away from the closer proximity. "In your opinion, do you think you were adequately prepared by that training, to face, well, for the want of a better word, torture? You see, I'm the Seal advisor to their SERE training programme and the point of me being here, is partially to assess our training programme. There is nothing sinister involved in my talking with you. It's not to make a detailed medical psychiatric assessment on your ability to remain as a reservist in the Seals, though this recording is to form part of the basis of such a report. It's all too soon for that. So any insight you're able to offer us, Commander, would be valuable."

"I would say it's... adequate." He's brief. It's all he can say.

But nothing prepares you for that. They prepare you to be strong. Mind- set. And it's strength that gets you through. Nothing else. It's strength that's going to get him through now.

"You want to add to that?" asks MacFarland surprised. "Nothing at all we can improve on?"

"No." Keep things simple. Don't complicate.

"We've read the police report on your abduction," says Chilcott. "We've read the forensic report of... and he's consulting his own notes, checking the name, "technician Charlie Fong, who visited the campsite where you were held. We've read the... rather long list of your injuries compiled by the hospital here."

Steve's stomach knots. He knows what's coming. MacFarland is making him face stuff he'd rather forget.

He knows the psychology. That sometimes it helps to face things. This is what they said when his mother died.

They're watching him now. Especially MacFarland. Watching how he reacts. And he's going to be strong through this. Facts. Short, short facts. No emotion. Then none of the pain.

"...Given insufficient food and water... You were tied by your wrists, suspended from a tree, and beaten," Chilcott is still reading from his notes. Facts. Nothing to do with Steve. Facts. Words. And he can almost believe none of it ever happened to him.

"... Cut with a knife... Had some kind of cattle prod applied... Water-boarded. Confined in, chained to a cage. Forcibly given heroin – what's with that with tying your wrist to a tree?" And he looks up questioning, both Steve and MacFarland. "Why couldn't he have just injected the heroin – you were chained already?"

Steve tries not to flinch again. And MacFarland glances his way before speaking. Checking for the reaction that Steve won't give them.

"Perhaps this had happened in some form to Pierson at the hands of Na Thurlong's men?" he suggests quietly, coughing, nervous for Steve. And Steve begins to feel something of an ally in MacFarland.

"So," and Chilcott leans back in his seat, "what, in your opinion, was the worst thing that happened to you? Given that we're here partially to see how to improve on training."

Steve feels some part of him go cold and heavy. He closes his eyes. He so wants to shut them out. So want to tell them that now would be a good time to leave.

"Chilcott, I don't think... We don't need this," says the voice of MacFarland.

"Hey, 'being prepared is winning half the battle' isn't it?" retorts Chilcott. "That's the saying? The Commander wants to help us all he can, doesn't he? To prepare our boys?"

Strong. He has to be strong. Not a repeat of how he was with Danny.

"The heroin," he says, without opening his eyes. His voice is husky and low. He scarcely recognizes it as his own. The heroin. Because he had absolutely no control over that.

"Were you ever blindfolded?"

"Chilcott," warns MacFarland.

He's got to answer these questions. He's got to show he's normal. He takes a breath – didn't even realise he was holding it.

"A hood when... water-boarded." This didn't happen to him. Detached. Someone else. Another Steve McGarrett.

"Were you stripped? You were found naked."

"He forcibly removed the rash vest I was wearing." He keeps his mouth straight. He doesn't react. He won't show emotion.

_Six quick cuts. And Steve can see the knife coming out of the green green._

"I removed my shorts for hygiene purposes." He's lying. He doesn't want them to twist things. To see things that weren't there. What purpose does it serve to say that Pierson suggested he remove them?

So he can use the pan.

_And the flies swarm round the stink of his own body and he longs to be clean again._

"Did he sexually abuse you in any way?"

_Arms that wrap round him. 'I'll take care of you. They took me for their pretty boy. Would you do that for me?'_

"No. No. No." He tries not to flinch. Not to blink. Aware always how much he's sweating – he can't hide that. Can hide the fact that his heart thumps at more than twenty beats a minute. That he feels nauseous. That the room swings. That he stills it all by concentrating on, focussing on the door. That he struggles to control his breathing.

"Commander?" MacFarland. "Chilcott, I think we have to stop things here."

"I'm fine, "says Steve. And he sets his jaw hard. Feels the muscles there, twitch.

"The medical report says, Pierson used the prod on every part of your anatomy, including your privates?"

"Yes, sir." His voice hitches. Eyes front. To the door.

"Commander?" The room swings. Buzzing in his ears. Vision blurs at the edges. He can't give in. He can't give into this.

"I'm ok. I need..." and he looks to his side-table. Confused. MacFarland is out of his chair, pouring him water. And he drinks hoping they don't notice that his hands shake.

"Thanks."

"If you like, we can stop?"

"No." He's going to go through with this.

MacFarland sits. And Chilcott continues.

"And this was for revenge? Detective Williams report says that when Pierson was apprehended he said, 'he lied to me.' Can you throw any light on that?"

"He wanted to know who radioed me saying he'd been killed." He can do this.

"That was, if I remember correctly, his brother, Luke Pierson?"

"Yes, sir."

"So you lied to him. You gave him someone else's name?"

"No, sir, I gave him his brother's. He didn't want to believe it."

"Commander... _Steve. _You don't have to call Commander Chilcott, sir. We're equal rank here," says MacFarland.

He didn't know he had.

"Why wouldn't he believe you?"

"I don't know. They'd been close I thought. But he even denied that. I guess it's impossible to believe your own flesh and blood would do that to you." He can do this. Be normal.

"You think it was deliberate on the part of Luke Pierson?"

"I don't know." He can do this but, back there in the forest... he couldn't be sure about his assumptions over Luke. "I really don't want to be accusing Luke Pierson over an opinion formed while I... wasn't thinking straight" And that's the honest truth.

"But Matt was alive when Luke said he wasn't. Luke Pierson said he'd suffered a head and thigh wound? We'd assumed he'd bled out. There's enough here to re-open an enquiry. "

"That's your decision to make, sir."

"At what point did you give him Luke's name?"

"Towards the end."

"Why? What made you decide to take all this punishment for over two weeks and then say something?"

"I'd held off as I thought he'd kill me if I revealed it too soon. I'd held off as I thought Hawaii-5-O would find me sooner. The longer I held off, the less time he had to go after other Seals, including his brother. I held off as I thought, there was nothing to be gained by Matt going off after his brother. As far as I was concerned Luke Pierson had done his job to the best of his ability."

"But Matt could have killed you even then?"

"I was in bad shape. I thought I was going to die. I thought there was a chance that I could persuade Pierson to get me to a hospital."

'_Live, live' says the voice of his father. _

"It wasn't because you'd had enough?"

The question is like a stab from the prod. The sides of the room close in on him. The faces of the two men merge with all the white, white of the room. Noise in his ears. His hands, wet with sweat grip tight at the sheets.

"I did not break." He says firmly. Deliberate. They're accusing him. They're saying he's weak. "I did not break."

"Pierson did a lot of things to you. What made you even believe he'd be sympathetic? You said you two didn't talk much?"

"Chilcott," warns MacFarland again. "There's nothing to be gained by this line of questioning."

"He said he was prepared to see us. What sort of questions exactly did he or you expect me to ask?"

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he says to Pierson._

"We'd been friends once." Automatic reply.

He's trembling. Trembling.

_I'm sorry. Forgive me. But Pierson doesn't hear. Will never hear._

"You said yourself you were in bad shape. Your team found you close to death. Revealing the name was your way out. It's that simple."

"Chilcott! Enough already!" And MacFarland is out of his chair.

"I did not break. This was... personal." He feels... sick. Leans to the side. Buries his head into the pillow. Can't stop shaking. Hot. So hot. But he's going to say this. He's going to say this because it's important. Swallows hard. Rights himself. The room loops. "Wasn't... wasn't national security," he hoarses out. "I would _not_ break if the lives... of other Seals... depended on it. I did _not_ break. I did _not_ break."

"Commander? Commander?"

The room is a swirl of grey shapes. White noise. The voice lost in the white noise.

"I did not break. I did not break. I did not break. I did not break."

-H5O-

He wakes.

The light hurts his eyes.

And MacFarland is standing beside his bed, feeling his pulse.

Detail.

Chilcott has gone. But the room dips and spins. His head hurts. The nausea won't leave him. MacFarland drops his wrist and again pours him water, passing the glass that he accepts with shaking hands. MacFarland sees it but it obviously doesn't bother him.

"You blacked out. Ever had that happen before?"

He finishes the glass, grateful that the water helps to wash away the taste of bile in his mouth. Hands it back and shakes his head. A mistake. It hurts.

"Did he... you think Pierson broke me?" His voice croaks and he's forced to cough. MacFarland lets him recover.

"Williams was right. At least as far as Chilcott is concerned. The man's a bastard. Bad news wherever he goes. You had a hard time with Pierson. No one thinks any less of you. You won't be thrown out of the reserves."

He hasn't exactly answered the question.

MacFarland hands him over a refill and stands with his arms folded, watching Steve drink.

Steve wraps both hands round his glass to stop his trembling. He feels so cold now.

"I was looking over your psychiatric reports. When you were being considered for the Seals? Did you know you failed outstandingly badly on one count? To such a degree there were serious doubts over your candidacy?"

A slight shake of the head.

"Empathy. Too idealistic. I guess that's two counts. They put it down to the death of your mother. My predecessor even wrote flippantly that you were better suited for the International Red Cross." He paces the room, talking to the floor, thinking out loud. "Some empathy is obviously needed. You have to work alongside your fellow soldier and get the work done. You have to know he's on your wavelength. You have to believe that everything you do is for a just cause, to make the world a better place. There are situations where you have to deal with the ordinary guy in the street. Chilcott rather than walking out on you, just now, should've been taking lessons." And he stops pacing and looks directly at Steve. "But it also means, in the long run, that sensitivity of yours is going to get you hurt. We teach you all that crap about feeling anger? It makes you strong? But no way were you ever going to do anything but sympathize with Pierson's situation."

He's takes Steve empty glass, placing it back on the table and turns to retrieve his note-book from his chair.

"I didn't write anything down," continues MacFarland, glancing at an empty page. "No recommendations. But I'm authorizing sessions with Dr. Mahelona. She has a good record. I suggest you take them." And he's making for the door. "I know you'll come out of this, Steve," he says, without looking back. "You scored so damn high on single-minded determination. Top of the class."

-H5O-


	11. Chapter 11

A/N Thanks everyone for sticking with 'Forgive Me' for ten long chapters. I've loved all the comments!

Your reward is a very long epilogue. Really, it's three fanfics for the price of one!

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 11<span>

He tries the handle with his left hand. The Heckler and Koch, is held tight to his chest with his right.

Cautious. He has no idea what's on the other side.

It gives. Not locked. And no noise from rusty hinges.

Doug Warren, then, for all his yakuza background, is careless.

He exhales that held breath.

Good.

Good so far.

Though, Steve would have used a shoulder to loosen an unyielding door. Would have used a bullet to the lock if need be.

But stealth gives them the advantage.

The corridor inside is his. Offices attached to a disused warehouse. He knows that Chin and Danny are coming in from the back. Heat sensors show there are three in the building. Warren has no accomplices in this side-line of his – porn and paedophilia.

Steve's wary. Boots tread careful as he steps over the threshold. Silent. Knees slightly bent. Both gloved hands now gripping the submachine gun. Prepared. Aiming for likely trouble. Ready to dive for cover. Focussed. Listening. Checking out further doors ahead. First left. Clear. Then swinging to the right. Clear. The left again. Clear.

A corner.

Gets his breathing into a rhythm. First time out since back on duty. And it's the controlled breathing that's not easy. Tension. Tight tension through his arms. Down his back.

If they flush Warren out, he's going to come this way. Steve hopes he gets to Kono and the boy, Craig, first - before that confrontation. He also hopes they're not dead already.

He edges forward. To that corner. Inch by inch. Close to the wall. Head held slightly to one side. Always listening.

Muted sound is coming at him. Moaning. Though whether it's female or child, he can't tell. Either way, he shouldn't be hearing it. Bad sign. Means he's close. But means he'll have to deal with injuries. And his head is putting images away. He has to stay focussed.

At the corner, he drops the gun. Makes himself small. Peers round. It's clear. Fire exit straight ahead. Prays Danny and Chin don't come suddenly blundering through.

Two other doors to the right. Both open.

Movement, sound coming from the second. Like crockery being washed. A kitchenette? Then this is where Warren is.

Pushes himself off to the opposing wall, quickly raising the gun again. He's perspiring under naked lamps overhead. The corridor is narrow, confined. His breathing just isn't right. His flak jacket scrapes at the wall as he moves forward again. Too much noise.

Reaches door one. Opens inwards. Door hinged to the left. Will obscure left-hand side of the room. Checks for occupants by edging round the door-jamb.

Freezes.

Shock.

Mind tells him to move on. He has to immobilise Warren before he can see to Kono and the boy.

Prioritise.

But eyes tell him he's not believing this.

The boy is chained to the wall. Has been beaten. Badly. And hangs slumped, unconscious.

_Pierson hangs him by his wrists to a tree. Pierson yells at him. 'Give me the name, McGarrett!' Beats him. Won't stop. God, he won't stop. The pain goes on and on. _

No.

Alana tells him he'll have flashbacks. Breathing controls the subsequent panic attack. She's given him exercises. Breathing ought to control it but it's not. It's damn well not. He can't control his breathing. His short hitching breaths alone will alert Warren if he doesn't watch out.

At the bottom edge of the door, he sees Kono's feet, bound by slip ties. She's not moving there on the floor.

He can hear Warren busy next door. Steve shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be wasting his time. But he has to look. And he eases himself, slow, further into the room, to take in the area beyond the door. Breathing is short and fast. Heart drumming quick and fast. Hands hot and sticky on the gun. He can't push away those memories of Pierson.

Kono lies on soiled carpet. Hands tied behind her back. Eyes closed. Her face, cut and bleeding.

No.

Glimpse of black security grid over the opaque glass of the window. No escape. Walls that close in on him.

No.

This room is his cage. Green green forest cut into squares by the mesh. Manacles that make his wrists bleed. A victim like the others. Easton. Pereira.

No.

No.

And he moves fast.

Isn't thinking. Heart thumping loud at his temple.

Isn't thinking.

Anger. Rage.

Doesn't care about cover, personal safety. Doesn't care to say he's Hawaii Five-O.

And Warren is making for the fire exit, and Warren swings round, and suddenly Steve's facing Warren holding a raised gun at his chest.

It's Pierson. Pierson come to get him.

And Steve smashes the gun from his hand with an upwards thrust of the muzzle of the H. and K.

The crack of bone and metal. Cry of pain. His own yell.

And down comes the stock that he drives into the man's face.

Clubs the man. Anywhere. One. Two. Three. Satisfaction as metal makes contact with flesh. The man is going down. Tries to grapple with Steve. But he's defenceless in this onslaught. Strength. Brute force.

Steve has it all. Anger and strength. Merciless.

"Don't... Don't..."

Blood and groaning, and the man's on the floor. Steve savagely pushes aside the man's flailing arms, his attempt to protect himself. And he drops to his knees, still pounding Warren.

Blind fury. Fists. Gun. It doesn't matter.

It's not Warren. It's Pierson.

It's Pierson.

Warren. Both.

It doesn't matter as long as he can lash out. As long as he can destroy something inside of himself. He's trembling, breathless, but he still has this strength.

It's Pierson's face, body that's receiving this punishment. Just. Justice. Right and wrong. Vindication.

And hands are pulling at his own, wrestling to prise the gun from his fingers. He shoves them away, still hitting without seeing.

"Don't, Steve, don't." A soft voice, pleading. "Come on, Steve, come on, you don't want to be doing this."

"Leave me be!" he growls, but he's nearly done. Energy drains from him. A couple more blows and a firmer voice, "enough, Steve!"

And arms wrap round his shoulders, and pull him away and up to his feet. And Chin is pushing him, pinning him against the wall with arm and elbow.

Chest heaving, panting. The sound of his heart pumping loud in his head.

He's stares at the crumpled body. At the mess that is Warren's face and head. Blood pools beneath matted hair. Danny's kneeling at his side, feeling for a pulse, and he's phoning for paramedics.

"Get to Kono. Craig. Next door," Steve gasps out. "They're the ones that need help."

Steve struggles against Chin's hold. He wants to go. He wants to run. He needs to escape. And Danny's pointing at him. "You, you stay still and quiet! While we decide what to do!" And he's off to the other room with Chin releasing Steve and following him.

And Steve's left alone with Warren.

Trembling. Knees weak. Whole body wet with perspiration that now makes him feel cold. So cold. And he can't trust himself to move from that spot and help Chin and Danny.

He lets his gun thud to the floor. Numb. And leans back against the wall, looking up to the bare light bulb. He squeezes his eyes tight shut. Gulps back the nausea. Hates this corridor and its feel of claustrophobia.

He so longs for someone to tell him everything is going to be ok again.

_Time. Give yourself time, says Alana._

Voices come to him from the other room. Danny phoning for additional assistance. Chin is trying to coax Kono to waking. He hears Kono murmur some kind of reply.

The utter relief of that.

And then Chin says, "we'll have to say it was self-defence. But who's going to believe that..."

Even Steve can't be sure.

'_You might get flashbacks for a while,' says Alana. 'They'll spring up on you when you least expect them.'_

But they'd petered out. And nothing had ever been like this. She'd said he was good to return to work.

He so longs for someone to tell him everything is going to be ok again.

The poor kid, Craig...

And he hears Danny saying the same thing...

He opens his eyes and moves down the corridor. Unsteady on his feet. Stumbling. Leaning one shoulder against the wall, swallowing hard before moving on. Past the room where his Team are.

Danny is quickly at the door. Calling after him. "Where do you think you're going?"

He doesn't reply. He really has no idea.

"Before you go getting all guilty again, the bastard deserved it!"

-H5O-

"Why are you even here, Williams? This isn't your department."

And Danny's trying to head Hamakua off, by walking in front of him, backwards, dancing on his toes like some boxer – and quickly isn't exactly easy. So he reverts to walking alongside his fellow detective.

"Excuse me? In case, you haven't noticed? The building you are now approaching? One home of Lt. Commander Steve McGarrett? Head of Hawaii- Five-O? What makes you think it'd be none of my-" and he points to himself – "_our_ business?" and he waves an arm back to Kono, still over by her car, trying to phone, to warn Steve. And to Chin, trailing behind, with half a dozen other HPD and Narcotics guys.

With their dog.

Hamakua stops. As does the whole entourage. Though it confuses the dog, till it's told to sit.

"You shouldn't even know we're here. Internal Affairs said you weren't to be told. They said you'd try to interfere."

And IA, in all their astuteness would be right.

"IA are en route, by the way," adds Hamakua as he tries to walk on, waving his men to continue, some of whom have been detailed to go round to the beach entrance. Steve so does not want this at the moment.

So Danny's resolute and now firmly stands in front again and won't budge any of his tough, stocky 5' 5''.

"Yes, we are here, because we're funny like that. I don't know about Narcotics, or those dear folks at IA, but us at Hawaii-Five-O, well, we have this ohana thing going-"

"You know McGarrett. You can't honestly believe that Steve would do this?" asks Chin.

"We have a warrant, Williams, Kelly. We're just doing our job. Five other police officers are also having their homes searched. All six were the only ones in that warehouse when the stash went missing and McGarrett hasn't exactly got a clean record as far as heroin is concerned now has he?"

And that has the affect of shutting Danny up. And he would be the first to admit that it takes some doing. He allows Hamakua and his troops to walk on by.

And Kono tags along on the end, shaking her head as she passes Danny and Chin - she still hasn't been able to make contact with Steve. Which wasn't so out of the ordinary these days... Though Steve's truck is parked up in the drive so unless he's gone off in the Marquis, he should be in the house.

"Where... what are you doing?" Danny asks her. Voice strained.

"Well," she stops, hesitating, unsure, eyes checking out both Chin and Danny. "Hamakua didn't exactly say we couldn't go in too."

"No, no, he didn't, did he?" says Chin grimly and he moves off towards the door. Danny and Kono follow.

Inside, the living area is already a mess. Doors and cupboards are being thrown open by the various uniforms. Sofa cushions are everywhere. The dog with a wonderful wagging tail, as if it truly gets a high out its work, is sniffing around in the kitchen.

Steve, dressed in jog pants and wife-beater, stands lost in the centre of it all, watching helplessly as the contents of another cupboard is sent sprawling to the floor.

His arms hang loose at his sides. The warrant is screwed up in one hand. He looks awful. Dark shadows round his eyes. Like he'd slept in late and had thrown on the first thing he'd come to. Danny suspects that in the two months since Pierson, the nightmares haven't left him.

'_Time, he needs time. Give him time, Danny,' Dr. Mahelona had said._

But... if Steve had a habit, looking at him now, you wouldn't disbelieve it.

"Steve, we couldn't stop them," apologizes Chin.

"Why..." Steve swallows hard, unable to comprehend. His eyes like – well, this must be a nightmare too. "Why are they... the dog's not finding anything," he says more resolute. But only just. "The dog _won't_ find anything."

"Yeah, why are you doing this, Hamakua?" joins in Danny. "I hope you guys are going to clear up after? No way to treat an innocent man, now, is it?"

"Procedure," growls Hamakua, rifling through Steve's cutlery drawer and then stooping, checking underneath.

"Don't think you'll find eighty kilos taped there, somehow," murmurs Kono, beautiful and sarcastic, glancing over the rest of Steve's house.

The dog-handler with dog is now heading for the stairs. Steve gazes after them. The bottom has just fallen out his world. Again.

"I can... am I allowed to go with them?" he asks as Hamakua passes by to follow. As if being invaded by HPD is a completely new thing to him. He does this stuff all the time.

"Sure," relents Hamakua. The man has some common decency then.

Danny goes too. As does Chin and Kono. Hamakua doesn't object though this is just too many people cluttering up a possible crime scene. But it won't come to that. No way. No way.

The bathroom nothing. A guest room nothing.

"You see, Hamakua? Waste of police time and tax-payers money," says Danny leaning on the door jamb as the dog and handler do the rounds of Steve's own room.

Bed not made. Sheets still twisted. So not Navy ship-shape. And Danny's theory looks correct that Steve had had a rough night.

And Steve's face – this is very much intrusion of personal privacy on a grand scale.

Danny nods to Kono and Chin to keep back out on the landing and they understand perfectly.

Danny turn back and there's Steve wincing, body tense as hell, as the dog jumps on Steve's bed, rootling in among those sheets.

Then the beastie is at the bedside cabinet – and – whines. Paws at the bottom drawer.

Is the guy crazy? Drugs in his bedroom? Steve had became addicted after all? And Danny could throw a hissy fit. Not the time and place, however.

And the effect on Steve is electric. Desperate, scanning the window, like he's about to throw himself out.

Scared. Scared is not a good Steve look.

"Ok, ok, that's enough already," and Danny is across the room, placing himself between the cabinet and the dog, pushing the animal firmly away with his legs. "As Officer Kalakaua said, there's no way are you going to find eighty kilos of smack in such a small wee cupboard, my wolfie friend."

"Williams," warns Hamakua. "I suggest you go downstairs. Or even better, go outside and _leave_. I don't want to have to arrest you too."

"Well, if you don't want to, then you don't have to," Danny responds, still pushing the mutt away with a few insistent pushes with his knees. The dog-handler's at a loss what to do next.

"I should take him to the vet's." And Danny's pointing to his own nose. "Has something wrong with his sense of smell. Distemper. Fleas or something."

"Williams!" warns Hamakua, again.

And there's Steve, still standing by the bed, staring at the cabinet. At the dog. Still horrified by how this might turn out.

"Look, Hamakua. How about _you_ go downstairs and outside. And get into your car and drive all the way back to HQ?"

"You want me to turn a blind eye?"

"You're not going to find eighty kilos of heroin here. Haven't we already established that? If the Commander has taken it, don't you think he would have found somewhere else to stash it anyhow, huh? And not in his own home? Please give the man some intelligence!"

Hamakua nods over to the cabinet.

"Even a few ounces. For personal use. Is enough to bust him."

"Hammy, Hammy, Hammy," and he really hopes this is his pet name, "some slack here, please! You know McGarrett! The man would go through hell to save your butt. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"The same can be said for those other officers."

"No. No. It can't. This is McGarrett. Incorruptible."

Hamakua and the dog-handler glance at one another. They know it's true. They're also thinking about Steve's time with Pierson.

The poor dog's going nuts meanwhile and is scrapping, no _scratching_ Danny's newest bestest shoes.

"If there's any wrong doing here, let Hawaii-Five-O sort it. Let's keep it in house, huh?" Danny presses. "We'll bring him in ourselves if need be. Trust me."

Hamakua nods. "Think you can overlook this?" he asks the dog handler.

The dog-handler nods back, pursing his lips. He's not exactly happy. "I'll go and check the garage and we can be out of here." He pulls the dog after him, and both he and Hamakua push past Chin and Kono, looking very worried at the door.

And Danny's instantly down to the bottom drawer and pulls out the small bag of white powder.

And Danny can't hold onto his pent-up emotion any longer.

"Are you insane?" he tries _not to _scream out - it's doubtful HPD are out of earshot.

Steve's eyes open wide. He's still scared. He looks over to Chin and Kono, who have edged into the room. He's scared of his own damn Team?

"It's not mine," he pleads. "It was Mary's. She was stressed out when she was staying here. I meant to..." he fades off.

"Well, now, that's a new excuse. Never heard that one before. 'It's not mine. It's someone else's. I was just holding it for them,'" mimics Danny.

"You... you don't believe me?"And Steve's again looking from one to the other.

"Even found with this stuff, you'd lose your badge. Go to jail," says Chin sadly. "Hamakua could have sent you for blood tests."

"Then you _don't_ believe me?" Steve swings round to face the window wiping a hand across his mouth. He's perspiring. And Danny's knows these are all the hall marks of a liar. But he_ wants_ so much to believe Steve.

"But why hold onto it?" he asks, just so incredulous that Steve could be so stupid. "Mary wasn't about to come back for it any time soon? Look, follow me! Come, come!" and he's beckoning Steve, like a child, through to the bathroom. And Steve slowly follows, past Chin and Kono, stopping at the door, while Danny, lifts the toilet seat and pours out the powder, flushing the contents and the bag away.

"See, this. This is what we, _non-crazy_ people do with illegal substances that have been left on our premises so as not to incriminate ourselves! What were you thinking!"

"You don't believe me," says Steve again numbly. He's hurting. Bad. And that makes Danny hurt bad too. Danny sighs and sits on the edge of the bath-tub.

"You don't talk to us, Steve," says Chin from behind on the landing. "You're just not talking to us. How are we supposed to know how or what you're thinking? What you're going through? We can guess. We had to guess over Warren. But we're not mind –readers. We're here to help but you won't... _share_ with us."

Steve's leaning against the door-post. Closes his eyes. A hitching noise in his throat.

"You know all there is to know about... me and Pierson," he says. And even saying that didn't look easy.

"Yes, we did," agrees Danny. "So that must put us in a position to understand, don't you think? So what was it? You kept the smack just to prove you could resist it? See? I'm guessing here? But I'm not_ knowing_."

"You want talk? Then you don't understand," Steve suddenly says, throwing open his eyes. "If you want to talk, there's beers downstairs in the fridge. I just want to forget. I'm going for a swim." And he shoves off the post and pushes past Kono and Chin to his room, shutting the door.

-H5O-

They're watching him. Faces all turned his way. And he looks to the door. But Alana said he could do this. He looks down to his hands hidden by the wooden front of the witness box. He controls their shaking with steady breathing. He should not be like this after all this time.

'There are drugs I could prescribe,' she suggests.

But he won't take them. He's not exactly depressed. Though the guilt never leaves him. He just has this constant fear of panic attacks. The claustrophobia. When he feels exposed. Vulnerable. Like now.

"So tell me, Commander McGarrett, in your opinion, would you say you used reasonable force when arresting my client, Doug Warren?"

"Objection! Can we please stick to facts? The question is for the court to decide."

"Sustained."

"How many times did you strike Doug Warren?"

They've agreed a figure. Danny told him to say six. Called to the stand, each one of them has said six. But it's a lie and he's under oath.

"Commander? An estimation will suffice."

"Six. Seven."

"Well, that figure tallies with other members of your task force," says the prosecuting attorney, Bryson drily. "Of course, numbers don't really matter here. You left my client with a fractured wrist, jaw and skull and in need of forty five stitches to his face and scalp. Though, a question on numbers... since the Hawaii-Five-O task force was established, how many people have you arrested with similar injuries?"

"I can't... we've arrested- I haven't access-" He stammers. Flustered.

Alana said he could do this. He has to control his breathing and he can do this.

"Don't know? Total arrests have reached a very creditable figure of eighty-six. I'm sure the tax-payers are more than happy with that." There's a titter from the press section of the court-room. "It's injuries, I'm interested in. Still don't know?"

None. The answer is none. Only Doug Warren.

"For the benefit of the court, I'll list them on your behalf." He consults notes. "You or your colleagues have shot dead fifteen – you personally, ten of those. A further sixteen have received one or more gunshot wounds. Twenty three, bruising and cuts. One, a fractured ankle. But not one has ever been incapacitated to the same degree as Doug Warren."

"I didn't kill him," he blurts out.

"No. By pure luck, you did not."

"I was too close to use my gun. If I'd discharged my firearm, I would certainly have killed him due to the close proximity."

"Commander McGarrett," says the judge, leaning forward across his desk. "Please refrain from speaking in court except to answer counsel's questions."

"Sir."

"And you address me as your Honour."

He nods. He's been told that. Forgotten. 'Sir' comes so automatic. And automatic mode is what gets him through life lately.

"Commander?" asks Bryson. "The rank of Commander comes from your days as a Navy Seal?"

"Yes."

"You are trained, given the knowledge on how to subdue a man without using a firearm? Even rendering him unconscious if need be?"

This is going to condemn him.

"Yes."

"With _one_ blow?"

He can't answer, this is going to condemn him. He glances over to his Team. Danny buries his hands in his face. Chin's tight-faced. Kono chews a lip and looks to her feet. They've all had their turn as witnesses. Lawyers assured him, that 'full means and immunity' meant this would never come to court. That Hawaii-5-O would never face a police brutality charge. Somehow, the legal process went through unhindered. Jameson was powerless. A bribe somewhere? Wo Fat?

"Commander? With one blow?"

"Yes."

"Am I permitted to ask why you didn't do this in the case of Doug Warren?"

"I... I couldn't."

"You couldn't?"

"No."

"He perhaps wouldn't stay still long enough for you? That's ok, Commander. You don't have to answer that question. I'd like you to answer this one, however. Would you say, that in order to kill or injure a man, you'd have to feel a certain degree of anger?"

"Objection! Counsellor is again asking for an opinion."

"Sustained."

" Commander McGarrett? Some nine weeks ago, you were admitted to Queen's Medical Centre with severe injuries yourself, were you not?"

"Objection. I can't see how Commander McGarrett's own previous medical condition has any relevance with this case," says their defence attorney.

"If you'd be patient I'm trying to ascertain state of mind, your Honour."

His stomach lurches. He's breathing faster. Tense. More than ever. He hadn't been warned they'd go for his state of mind. His Seal background, the fact that he knows how to kill a man, yes. But not this. He looks to the door. He needs someone to tell him everything's going to be ok.

"Over-ruled. You may answer, Commander."

He says nothing.

State of mind. He can see where this is leading. He looks to his Team, trying his damn hardest to remain impassive when inside he's desperate to run for that door. And Danny shakes his head – they're powerless to help. And suddenly... here in this court room... A new guilt. He's shut them out when they've tried to understand. _Do _understand. He's let them down. Lack of trust that they're helping him.

_Catherine. Her body alongside his. Playing with his hair. His ear. 'You'll be ok, Steve. You'll be ok.'_

But she's gone now.

"Commander? You are obliged to answer?"

The door...

He can do this. Alana said he can do this.

"A simple yes or no will suffice."

"Yes."

"Your injuries were the result of prolonged torture carried out over the course of nineteen days?"

He hesitates again. The question is so black and white, the images in his head, aren't. They come at him again unwelcome. The green green of the forest. The blue of the sky. Freedom of the hawk flying. Freedom from pain, from guilt wasn't his. He can't ever forget.

'_It's normal to feel guilt. It's normal to feel anger,' says Alana. _

"Commander?"

"Yes."

"I imagine you have, or rather had, no great regard for..." and he consults his notes again, "Matthew Pierson? Did you feel anger towards Pierson, the man who tortured you?"

"Objection. Irrelevant."

He answers anyhow.

"No."

"You don't have to answer that," says his Honour.

"No. I did not feel anger." He hopes he can convince the court. Though he knows it was anger that made him want to kill Warren. He hopes he doesn't have to explain himself over Pierson. That he felt guilt. Not anger.

_Forgive me._

They're watching him. Watching him for his every reaction. He doesn't want to explain this stuff.

"What about now? Pierson took his own life. How do you feel about Pierson now that time has passed?"

"Objection." The defence is working hard for him.

"Overruled"

He can't reply. He doesn't know. He damn well doesn't know. Then it's anger. Anger that Pierson held him captive. Threatened Danny and Catherine. Killed Pereira and Easton.

"Commander? You are still under oath."

"I... pity him. He's was unstable. He couldn't help himself. That's how I felt back then. That's how I feel about him now. "

"Well, that's very commendable of you, I'm sure. That you could control your emotions like that. Your honour, I like to present to the court, a detailed study of a psychologist, Dr. Leo Roberts, covering the condition of Post Traumatic Stress," and the clerk comes forward and present s it to the judge. "I've highlighted an area of particular interest, on page forty-three, that outlines the phenomena of some delayed reactions in these cases."

"And you have a point here, Counsellor?"

"Dr. Leo Roberts, who I might add is highly acclaimed in this field, has put forward the hypothesis, backed up by several case studies, that those subjected to violence, who initially do not experience anger towards their attacker, are prone to do so at a later date, and this is likely to be anger set off by the slightest trigger, some memory. This delayed pent-up anger can be violent in nature and is often targeted at an innocent third party, with no connection whatsoever to the attacker. I'm putting it to the court, that Commander McGarrett did not feel anger towards Matt Pierson, but at a later date, gave into this latent anger, exhibiting uncontrollable rage towards Doug Warren. I'm putting it to the court that he _did_ use unreasonable force to arrest my client."

Steve freezes. Holds his breath. This is exactly what Alana had explained to him. He looks to his team again. Pain. Hurt. They know it's all true too. They've known it along. He's seen it in their eyes.

Pity in their eyes. He's never wanted their pity. But now he's needs it so much. He's needs someone to tell him everything's going to be ok.

"Objection! Supposition on the part of the prosecution!"

"Sustained. You're going to need something more substantial than this, Counsellor."

"I'm getting there. A second document, the work of one Dr. Alana Mahelona."

More papers get to the judge's desk.

"Case notes?" The judge raises his eyebrows.

It's noisy as both counsellors speak at once.

"Objection! Inadmissible evidence! Defence has not been notified that these were to be submitted to court!"

"Case notes that clearly state that Commander McGarrett _does_ suffer from delayed and transferred anger issues!"

"Sustained. "

They tell him that even if a question is sustained, it's still left in the minds of the court...

There's a brief silence as the judge flicks through the papers. Steve swallows hard. They're watching him. They're watching him. They're going to know everything. Everything that's held private. Inner most thoughts. His feelings of guilt. The way he begged Pierson to forgive him.

The door...

"Those... those sessions with Alana... were confidential," he says hoarsely.

The judge nods over to him. Agreeing with him. Addresses the court.

"I'm adjourning to consider the legality of this. Both counsellors meet me in my office."

"The court will rise!"

And Steve is leaving the stand. Noise. Loud conversation. The scraping of chairs. And Steve is running from the stand. Press of people. Can't breathe. Can't hardly see. Confusion.

"Steve! Don't! Wait up!"

Across the room, Danny, Chin and Kono are pushing through the crush of spectators, all leaving too.

A reporter tries to ask him questions. He shoves past. Faces. Faces. Giddiness. Buzz in his ears. The door...

"Steve!"

But he's running. Running. He's even running from his Team.

-H5O-

The wind ruffles his hair.

This is good. So good.

The horizon stretches for all eternity, losing itself in an infinity where blue ocean meets blue sky. Below, is a cliff drop of some five hundred feet. Below is the green green of the forest. The strong breeze teases uppermost leaves of tree-tops like white crests of waves rippling across the surface of the sea.

There's a rhythm here and he's soon into that rhythm, letting it soothe him. Lets the fresh air clear his lungs, his mind. Alana has given him lessons on how to relax, to meditate. He understands how, but it seldom gets him to where he wants to be... free.

But here... things are different.

Nine weeks has been too long to keep away from Ka'a'awa Valley where his father brought him as a boy. But over the next two ridges, is where Pierson set up his camp.

He needs someone to tell him everything's going to be ok...

_The warmth of Catherine close to skin... the wrap of untidy sheets... the smell of her, nestling into the curve of his body. She'd traced a finger over his scars. 'It'll be ok.' But he'd wept like a child. The shame of that. 'It'll be ok,' she'd reassured him. And she'd held him so tight. A week. And she'd listened. And he never wanted her to leave._

But he knew it was wrong of him to expect her to take his burden.

...Alana, in her neat white office. Wants to know how the week went. He doesn't like to tell her.

'It's good you're talking to someone besides me. But still not to your Team?'

He shakes his head. He plays with his fingers, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. She's told him in earlier sessions that he should lean back and relax. That this posture is one of readiness for flight. Or... to hold himself in - when he should be ready to open up.

'Why is that do you suppose?' she asks.

'They know all there is to know. They must know I went through hell. What can I add?'

'You feel ashamed? That you showed physical weakness? Vulnerabilty?'

He shrugs.

'You know, I'm going to have to accept that as a 'yes',' she says.

They discuss his feelings of guilt over Pierson. Feelings that won't go away. Even though Pierson killed two other men. He explains that as a commanding officer he was responsible for those serving under him.

'From what I understand, you had no option but to get your men out of there. You had to accept Luke Pierson's word.'

They talk at length about his mother's death. How as a sixteen year old boy, he'd been taken to the hospital. His mother hadn't died immediately. Ten minutes after arriving in ER. He, his father and Mary had paid their last respects. They would never see her again. His mother lay peaceful and quiet. A sheet covering her injuries. Dressings on one side of her head with just a spot of blood leaking though. Not breathing. And they'd been nothing he could do to bring her to life again.

And he's been feeling guilty ever since, says Alana.

'Sounds like shrink talk and you'll have bear with me, I have loads more coming,' she smiles

And he half-smiles back.

'I've known you for a month now, Steve. Summing you up, I'd say you were reserved with others until they prove themselves worthy of your friendship, and then they're rewarded with utmost dedication and loyalty. The same is true of your work. Dedicated and loyal, throwing yourself into a task with one hundred percent commitment. They're both coping mechanisms, Steve, to deal with the guilt and the hurt from that trauma of your mother's death. And more recently, your father's too. You've been hurt by life and therefore, though you long to trust people, you find it difficult to do so. You might get hurt again. Your father sent you away. You had to be self-reliant emotionally at too early an age. And that self-reliance, independence, means that strong friendships are again difficult to form. But if you do bond this way, you still wish to maintain this self-reliance within the friendship. It's why you're finding it difficult to open up to your colleagues. Throwing yourself into your work is a way to forget. Seeking perfection in everything that you do is a way to block out the guilt of that time when you perceived yourself as weak. And we're getting a repeat of that over Pierson. You could never bring your mother back, Steve. Neither can you be held responsible for Pierson. The only way you're going to drive away the guilt is to... forgive... yourself. You have to learn to accept there are things in life you can't always change. It's ok to be weak and human. Imperfect.'

He shivers. The breeze is freshening off the sea though it's miles away, and clouds are forming fast. A shower already darkens the sky to the south over Honolulu, throwing up a full rainbow at its edges. He'd better head back. He'd changed after leaving the courtroom and only wears a T and cargos.

He looks up as suddenly, as directly high overhead, a bird in flight shrieks a warning into the wind. He holds a hand to his eyes, following the way it swoops and dives and then glides. He can't tell... maybe a hawk...

And... looking away... glimpses of clothing, flashes of brightness through the undergrowth.

He's not going to be alone for much longer.

He waits, looking out to the ocean, as Danny climbs the last piece of pathway, breathless.

"You just do not do this!"

He could joke and pretend that he thinks Danny is talking about climbing mountains but he knows exactly what Danny is really talking about.

"How did you find me?" Composed. In control again.

"What?"

"How did you find me?" He says again, not taking his eyes off the distant sea.

"Oh, Mr. Inscrutable. You think you're a closed book? You think I don't know where you'd head out to at a time like this? You think I don't know you that well? You think I wouldn't even _care_ to know? Well, that's an insult. But..." Danny holds up his hand in mock protest. "But that's ok, I understand that you don't understand the finer points of being a friend, that you are 'Understandingly Challenged."

"I've never thought that. I've never given you cause to think that," says Steve, facing Danny.

Danny throws him an incredulous look.

And Steve turns his head towards the east, feeling the chill of the sea wind.

"I'm not about to throw myself over a cliff top, Danny," he says. He's seen the look in Danny's eyes, however much Danny tries to cover. Danny's fear.

"No, but you've just committed professional suicide and _resigned_?"

"You don't understand-"

"There you go again with this understanding thing again!" And Danny throws up his arms. Exasperated. A second or two and he simmers down. Hands go in his pockets – he's still in his day pants and shirt, though the tie has gone - and he stands beside Steve but he's not looking at the view.

"You don't talk to us, Steve," he says. Quiet.

"What... what do you want to talk about? You already know everything that went on with Pierson."

"Oh. Oh." And Danny draws back with mock surprise. "So _now_ it speaks! What is it with you? You only hold meaningful conversations on mountain tops? Let me assure you, they go a whole lot easier on a flat horizontal surface!"

Danny sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

"I know, I know we kinda blew it big time when we doubted you over the heroin, but who could blame us? Look, until today, we didn't even know you'd been seeing Dr. Mahelona? Why the big secret, huh? It's like you're on a freaking commando raid or something!"

"I let him down," Steve blurts out.

This time Danny looks at him with real surprise.

"Pierson? Sure." And Danny shrugs and pulls a face. "This Navy Seal thing - you never leave a man behind... Has the Navy blamed you for anything? They looked into this, right? And only the other day, totally exonerated you from any ill doing? Wasn't the brother totally to blame? Isn't he the one being arrested for possible homicide? Didn't Pierson punish you enough without you having to punish you too? Pierson isn't here to accept your apology. He's never going to be here to forgive you." Danny comes round to Steve's front and positions himself between Steve and the cliff edge. "When is this ever going to end? You can't keep running away. So this resignation thing is _you_ hitting _you_?" And he punctuates both 'you's' by jabbing at Steve's chest. "Dr. Shrink Williams, here!" This time, he points to his own chest. Both hands. Expansively. "Hey, hey. _I_ forgive _you_." And uses both hands to point at Steve again. "Will that do?" And those hands are waving about. "Kono forgives _you_. Chin forgives _you_. There isn't even a case to answer in the first place!"

Steve looks away. A lot of this stuff has gone over in his mind a million times.

Danny calms down a notch and moves over to Steve's right, kicking at a stone. "You've shut us out. What is that if it's not leaving men behind? You paid back with interest with Pierson. You keep forgetting. We found you, Steve. We know how much you paid. That torture..." and he shakes his head. "No, I'll never be able to understand that. Never be able to know what it felt like to live through that."

And Steve hopes he hides his flinch at the word 'torture.'

"But I try to understand. And I know you have this code of honour thing. I know it's strong, _here_, with you," and he thumps his heart, "but you resign, what are you leaving behind then, Steve? This Warren thing is just a blip. We'll get over it. That attorney for the prosecution? Bryson? He made a mistake big time, bringing in Dr. Mahelona's notes? The case is going to be thrown out. And Judge Packard is none too pleased that Bryson is a drinking buddy of Jameson's opponents."

Danny comes back to his side. Looks out over the forest.

"I became a cop, Steve, to put wrongs, right. Thought I could play a hero and do that."

"I thought you said it was down to some hot chick, Penelope?"

"Oh, Penny. Oh yes, she of, "and he makes an hourglass shape with his hands. "Well, yes, that did have some contributory factor in my formative career decision making. Remember, I was very fresh out of high school and of an extremely impressionable mind."

"Innocent? You?" And Steve can't help a half smile.

"Yes. Don't jest. I was innocent once upon a time. That aside. I did have these higher ideals – and you know, Steve... we don't have much in common... your taste in cars, pizzas, shirts is highly questionable... but I thought we had this one thing in common - to put wrongs, right. And I didn't ever think you'd ever want to give that up. I know you're into sacrifices, but it's not really the sort of sacrifice you should be making, Steve. To give up on that."

"I'm just ... not proud... of what I did. To Warren. To Pierson."

"You were a rookie commander. You made a mistake. It's in the past. Fact. Detail. Move on. Move out. Whatever it is you Navy Seals say. 'Throw the next problem at me. I'm ready'. "

Steve smirks. "You should have been in the Seals. Morale."

"Oh, but I don't like to swim, remember? And neither do I have a penchant for the tattoos."

"What's wrong with tattoos?"

"Like you have to prove something? How macho you are?"

"Like the way you joined the police force to impress Penelope?"

The hawk suddenly drops from the sky, hunting prey on the forest floor.

"Hey, a hawk!" says Danny, holding up his hands to shield his eyes as he watches the bird now ascending high into the blue. Steve follows suit.

"You know what a hawk looks like? I didn't realise you were into Hawaiian flora and fauna."

"We saw one... where... when... we found you." He's evasive, skirting round actually mentioning that day at the camp-site.

"You can say Danny. I'm not going to break. Sometimes... a little claustrophobic, yeah." He shrugs. "Alana says I'm on the mend. Time, you know," and he shrugs. But all the things he's feeling will never leave him. The intensity will go, sure. Scars always fade...

His eyes fix on the hawk again. It's flying so close now, he can make out the detail of the markings of its feathers... beak... talons... Detail.

The detail of the vein of a leaf, the mesh of the cage, a droplet of water. And he sees these things again... Detail. Always looking for escape. A way out. A plan. But detail of memory lets in the pain again. His mother. His father. He can't ever run from his thoughts.

"But... back then. You saw the hawk too, Danny? Honest, I thought I was hallucinating. I thought it was my father talking to me. Hey, I even thought it was my father watching out for me. How crazy is that?" He thinks Danny will laugh at him. That it's a mistake to confess this much and give this man extra fuel to laugh and jibe.

But Danny pulls a face, considering. "On a scale of one to ten? Then it's a firm eight. But you were drugged." And he's squinting back away from Steve, unable to meet his eye, as if he too has something painful to admit.

"Your father, huh?... I don't believe in all this stuff... if it keeps people happy, that's their affair... _problem_... but," and his voice sounds like it's choking and goes soft, almost silent. "I don't think we would have found you if it weren't for that hawk ... watching out for... you."

The hawk swoops again.

Ghosts that tell him to live.

Detail. Danny is here at his side because he wants to be. Because he has a reason to be. There. He's been there for nine weeks. And his Team too. More if you include the search. Concrete. Firm. Unquestionable detail.

Danny coughs. "Coincidence. That it hovered right over you, like it'd tracked you down."

"What? Oh yes... coincidence, huh. "

"Because stuff like that does _not_ happen. Not in real life."

"No."

"But... if it _were_ your father, he should be giving you a good verbal spanking by now and convincing you go back to the Governor and asking her to ignore the resignation."

"She didn't accept it," he says. "I'm still officially your boss. She told me to go away and reconsider. How did you find out anyhow?"

"HPD grapevine."

"It's good," and Steve nods, shoving hands into his cargo pockets, feeling so easy with this conversation. It's been too too long.

"Yeah, it's good," agrees Danny, mirroring him, shoving his hands into his pants.

There's a pause while they both survey the distant horizon.

"So..." and Danny releases a hand from one pocket, waving it in complaint. "You let me pour my heart out and say stuff that I wouldn't ordinarily say? Even about... _spirit hawks?"_

"That's about the drift of it," says Steve, kicking at dust with the toe of a trainer, nonchalant, stifling a smile.

There's another pause.

"So... your resignation? Thought about it yet?"

"Yeah." And Steve turns abruptly. "Let's go catch bad guys."

End


End file.
